[center][h3]Rownstetaine -- the Tenth Day[/h3][/center]


	Rownstetaine was a city built upon itself. From the days of Lynnde to the times of now, stone structures of impossible size and built stood strong, marking the border between Rylea and Jannerton in the south. While it wasn’t a particularly expansive city, it was tall, with many buildings turning into spires, compartments built on compartments throughout time, leaving the stonework in such a way that each stratum represented a different age the city had seen.

	A great wall ringed the city in typical Lynnfairish fashion, and despite its impressive thickness and aesthetic architecture, it was the center castle of the city that garnered the most praise. The castle was renovated during the Blooming Rose era of Lynnfaire, during the Halwendian dynasty, and such it held impressive curtain walls, spires, and enough architectural compartments and decoration to serve as its own miniature city, a jewel sought by the late Richard d’Jannerton to replace his own capital of Olmsbridge with.

	Inside one of the many towers of the castle was the room, circular andwell decorated. Windows of clear glass paned every wall save the East, where a great door marked the beginning of the spiral stairwell. William d’Montigue’s back was to the door, himself in a velvet covered seat of imported wood from some far away tropic. To his left and to his right sat his noble supporters, their side swords tied to their scabbards out of respect for the diet, William’s own longsword resting against his chair, a double knot keeping it sheathed. 

	He sat facing a round table, and across the way sat Abigail d’Montigue, her support to her right and left, all blades tied away, and a pair of guards behind them, velvet wrapping their swords from grip, and a servant girl serving cut cheese from a silver platter, the edges of her knife dull. The only blades present and untied being the one on the hip of Archbishop d’Kamwell. The blade was of ancient design, it’s pommel a dusky metal, as was its crucifix crossguard. Light blue wrappings covered the hilt, and the polished engravings of Halwende identified on the exposed chappe, the rest of the blade hidden in a sheath of pure gold, stamped with a sapphire. As the ruling regent during the civil war, it was only natural the badge of office, the Sword of Halwende, sat with the Archbishop, who in turn, sat to the right of Abigail.

	The nobles were in a murmur, the diet just starting. Those under William laughed and goaded the other nobles about the great victory (or defeat) at Pralean and the loss of General Harry. Each remark was quickly shut down with reminders of Raymond’s demise, his daughter, the new duchess sitting by the Queen’s left. Few mentioned the capture of Edgard d’Montigue, be it out of fairness, or to avoid the anger of his father William. The Archbishop d’Drouschester sat by William, whispering into his ear, William aggravatingly hissing back.

	“...Further more!” A count from Drouschester argued, “without the aid of General Harry d’Yarlene or the more militant supporters of the princess’ claim, Abigail d’Montigue is but lost in the art of war, and is unable to continue the battle against her superior in politics and war, William d’Montigue.”

	The diet roared back, be it in defense or aggression towards the statement, “what of the Ravenlord?” some asked, “even so, could we rely on the princess [i]herself[/i] should the occasion arise?” some retorted. William sat smug, his wolf-like eyes digging into Abigail. 

	“Can Abigail hope to protect her subjects, or is she simply lost when forced to be alone to rule?” William added to the fire, “if she cannot defeat me, can she defend you?”

	The room broke into further arguments, until the hand of Abigail rose. Slowly the room quieted and Abigail stood from her chair. She wore the dress of a noble lady as was customary, but her face was that of a determined warrior, her stance strong.

	“I will say this,” her voice vibrated with authority, “that should any break the law of Lynnfaire, or endanger her people, I will bring justice and force to them quickly, be it with or without a general, a sword in my own hand.”

	Her eyes dug into William as she continued, “and so far as the law is being broken, I will administer righteous fury to the criminals.” 

	Abigail’s supporters murmured with excitement, covering the grumbles of William’s nobles. 

	“You speak of law!” William shot to his feet, his tone like that of a wolf bearing down on its prey, “yet you yourself stand in opposition of Lynnfaire’s very own tradition, refusing to allocate the crown to the rightful heir!”

	“I am the lawful heir!” Abigail responded, “by your tradition you break the law! And by law I will fight. How selfish are you, so that you will tear apart our nation to serve your own socialite propulsion through the ranks of nobility. How selfish are you that you find a massacre of your own brethren a victory, the death of a family friend a success, just so long as it gets you closer to stealing the throne out from under the Late King Edward’s heir, his own flesh and blood daughter.” A small wisp of blue mist escaped Abigail’s mouth as she spoke, her voice growing in power.

	“How dare you?” Abigail continued, the Duke backing into his chair, “How dare you pit brothers against brothers so you may retain your crime and rename it tradition. How foolish to think destroying a nation is a better option than having a Queen. How irreconcilably stupid are you to think that by force you will sway the hearts of man to look at you as loyal subjects, when those you control are simply you but as imps, clawing at the scraps of what flesh you manage to tear from the monarchy. Where is the kingdom you intend to build on lies, crime and selfishness, because it is not Lynnfaire, it is not here, and it is not in my… and our kingdom!” Abigail shouted at the duke, tendrils of mist pouring from her nose as she did, the diet silent. 

	The Duke stared in silence, his eyes ablaze with fury, some of his support sinking in their chairs, while others whispered about the Serene One favoring the princess, and others still on her own blasphemy against the one true king. Abigail swept a hand over the diet, “I have majority, the Late Raymond d’Rylea has fallen to the bidding of the Serene One and has been replaced by his sensable first born, Duchess Maria d’Rylea.” 

	The Duchess nodded her head and Abigail continued, “I ask the diet to see the truth of law, the truth of the Duke’s selfish deeds and to pass verdict on who shall rule Lynnfaire.”

	The diet members quietly discussed with each other, William’s support avoiding Abigail’s, until finally the words of vote were voiced. Slowly those by the door announced William’s name, but as the voting progressed away from the Duke, Abigail’s name was shouted one by one, noble by noble, until a sea of supporters had voted for the princess. The Archbishop d’Kamwell stood, “by majority,” William’s eyes narrowed at the Archbishop’s words and he stood up, “By tradition!” He shouted at the Archbishop.

	“I will remind you,” the Archbishop snapped, “this is a diet, and further still, your own son resides in the custody of the Princess.”

	William seemed hurt by the mention of his son, but his eyes narrowed, “I have the hammer and the anvil to make another.”

	“Then prove your selfishness, your narrow minded and ruthless ambition,” The Archbishop challenged, “you began this war without thought and while I admit you originally only struck where need be, you would now rip apart your own flesh and blood to get what isn’t yours, let this be a lesson to what you may do should a nation fall in your grasp.”

	“Silence!” William yanked his longsword from the side of his chair, the knot coming undone, having been tampered with, his blade shimmering out of the sheath as he rounded the table towards the priest. 

	“By majority!” The Archbishop defied William, as the nobles scrambled to their feet, fidgeting with their own knots. William was bearing down on the Archbishop now, “Princess Abigail d’Montigue is to be coronated Queen of all Lynnfaire!” He shouted as William suddenly swung his blade down.

	The sword of Halwende screamed as it was torn from it’s gold scabbard, the white steel blade reflecting the azure of the outside sky as Abigail brought it to intercept William. Her stroke caught William’s blade, snapping it away from the Archbishop, the new Queen now standing between him and the priest.

	“You think yourself a man?” William gritted his teeth.

	“I think myself a Queen,” Abigail growled, smacking William’s blade away. 

	The nobles stared in awe, yet the scene did not last, as suddenly William brought his blade back down, Abigail responding, then again, and again, and again until the two were engaged in a flurry of sparking clashes and risky parries followed by ripostes not often seen. William danced around Abigail’s strokes, while the Queen found her dress cumbersome, messing with her footwork. 

	While she started out strong, Abigail quickly found herself being overwhelmed by the ferocity and timing of William’s hurricane of strokes, pushing her back. She had no chance to riposte anymore, her own movements defensive as William advanced, her support still fiddling with their weapons as the guards hastily worked on unwrapping their blades. Finally William suddenly spun, his right hand disappearing from his sword grip, only to reappear as Abigail parried the strike, her ribs exposed as the deft and stealthy hand of William punched forth with a rondel dagger, the long blade sinking into her side. Abigail seized at the sudden stabbing pain and pushed away from the dagger before it went too deep, her body buckling in shock as warm blood began to rush out. 

	William brought his longsword to bear, but before the final blow could be struck, a sharp pain shot from his leg. He turned in fury to see the small servant girl, her silver knife in his thigh. He reached to hit her, but soon noticed the crowd of armed and angry nobles bearing down on him, their weapons freed. William backed up. The guards stared at him like bears, and the nobles were foaming with fury, all but the ones by William’s side still, though the numbers were few, they were powerful individuals. 

	William backed to the door, and as soon as it was opened, the nobles and guards charged him. William turned tail and began to make quick work out of the spiraling stairs, his support sprinting behind him. The guards were hollering for aide as the room emptied into the stairwell, the chase of William heated.

	Abigail lay on the floor still, a soft blue mist rising from her mouth and pooling by her wound as the Archbishop slowly propped her onto his robed lap. In her grip she held the sword of Halwende tightly, her eyes staring up blankly at the old man who basically raised her alongside her own father and mother.

	A guard burst back into the room, “he got away.”

	“How?” The archbishop demanded.

	“Payed men in the guard, planned getaway, I don’t know but he knew what he was doing,” The guard responded, exasperated. 

	d’Kamwell looked down at Abigail, “your orders my Queen?”

	Abigail shifted, her would slowly closing, the blood stemming under the mist, she responded, her voice rasp with lingering pain, “get a blacksmith.”

	“Your majesty?” 

	“I’m going to need plate and mail,” Abigail gave the Archbishop a steely look, “I will see justice delivered.”


[center]---- ----[/center]

[b]During the Diet...[/b]


	The door to Edith’s room came bursting off its hinges, the wood flying everywhere. Edith quickly turned from her mirror, snatching an arming sword leaning by the wall. But by time she turned, Sir Thompson had already charged her, his own blade smacking hers away before she had a chance to use it.

	His armored form knocked into Edith, sending the surprised woman flying backwards into the wall mounted mirror, the glass shattering as her body rebounded off it and back at Thompson. The man quickly met the rebounding Edith with a gruesome headbutt, his forehead cracking over her face, her body crumbing to the floor almost immediately, blood pouring from her nose. 

	Four other Rownstetaine guards came rushing in. Thompson pointed at Edith, “bind her and put her in the crate, let’s go.

[center] --- [/center]