[Hider=The Princess Fell] The Old Man rose from his kneeling position beside the casket, placing a hand gently atop the surface of the wooden prison for his daughter's corpse. His hand slid across the surface with some weight, before falling heavily at his side. "Lift. Turn. Walk." He barked out, rising up himself and turning to lead the procession out of the Telmarion camps. His daughter had fallen, and he felt nothing save a...bitter disappointment. She was doing so well, she had nearly wrought vengeance upon that damnable Mandarass- And yet she failed. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. She was fighting to right a wrong, to do service to her sister, and yet she was the one who fell, not Mandarass. It made Giles retreat within himself, the aura of unyielding authority he projected wavering and warping into one of absolute rage. It seemed to project out from in front of him as he lead the funeral procession away from the battle, clearing more space before him than any shout or command ever could. His hands lifted and rested on the familiar hilts of his Dirk and Broadsword, where he gripped them to hide the weight in his limbs. For the first time in his life, Giles Blackwell felt...[i]Old.[/i] His mind retraced the battle, and in his soldier's heart he couldn't find it in himself to doubt Andris Mandarass' words. The battlefield brought the truth out of men, as did facing death- and in facing Giles Blackwell, Andris declared his innocence and defended himself handily. Giles didn't care about Andris' escape, didn't care about the broken duel, didn't care about the gods, or the politics, or the implications- He'd felt played, cheated, and he'd lost his daughter. The only child he had that he considered a true soldier. As Giles Blackwell lead the procession out of Telmarion, and back to Alenius, he made a silent promise to himself; He'd find Andris Mandarass again, wherever he ran. ----- Eli Blackwell watched the procession of soldiers from on-high. After the battle, and after witnessing the death of his sister, a cold silence overcame the young lord. He watched as his father handled the official business of getting a casket and whatnot, but as he watched he found he couldn't think. Couldn't formulate ideas. He found his most critical tool had been stolen from him- rationality. For a brief moment, Eli Blackwell was visibly shaking with emotion. His ordinarily analytical eyes made wide with emotion, his usually calm movements made erratic with anger. A storm was released, no longer held in check by his calm. He licked his lips and shut his eyes, his mind wracking itself to compartmentalize the grief he felt. He sucked in a deep breath, and as he exhaled he was calm once more. The momentary lapse had passed. Eli blackwell was back in control. He had grabbed that storm of emotion and brought it back within himself, shackled it with chains and stone walls of mental power. He was feeding himself with its energy, and the shaking of his body calmed. He opened his eyes and gazed down at his father- A glint in his eyes that was usually reserved for his enemies. The analytical, piercing, glint he had given many over the years when negotiating or haggling or plotting. Today he turned this gaze on his own father. "Old Man..." He whispered to himself. "Your pride has gotten in my way for the last time." And with these words, uttered to himself, he blew a sharp whistle and lifted a hand, Mary alighting upon his arm as he made his way to follow the procession home. ----- Drevala wept openly. She stood on the edge of the field, far and away from her family and the soldiers of the battle. Hot tears streaking down her face as she watched her father begin to carry her sister home. She watched as, in her eyes, her father held back his anger. She watched as her beloved sister's body was carried home by men she herself would've carried back had she been alive. She gripped herself against a tree and shook in raw emotion. Unlike her brother, she could not contain herself. It was moments like these that she wished he had been born the mage and not she- he would've been truly terrifying if he could wield magic. Not like her. Weak. Useless. Too afraid of being in her own body to be of any use on the battlefield like her sister was. Sure she could hunt dragons, and could kill men- but she couldn't be there when her sister needed her most. And that's what matters. Not the kill counts, not the glory, not the pride- Drevala couldn't be there in time. And it killed her. First Naomi, injured and warped beyond repair, and now Beatrice... This was Drevala's second failure as a sister, second failure as a healer, second failure as a Blackwell. So she turned and fled from the battlefield, sprinting on human legs until they couldn't take her any further, then warping into the majestic great falcon she is known for and flying away. She couldn't bear to face her father- not having failed twice now. She needed the comforts of a friend, not the iron of that man. Her mind raced, the emotion overcoming any rational thought she might have had, and she began to think about magic. The only tool she had that her family did not- magic. She began to think about anything she could have done differently, any spell she should have used... To no avail. Her knowledge was limited beyond shapeshifting, a thing she now cursed herself for as she fled the Telmarion fields. [/hider] [hider=The Great Pyre of Beatrice Blackwell] Naomi stood at the edge of the kindling. The mountain of wood, flowers, grass, and anything else that could be burned was already massive. Situated outside of Mercy, in one of the fields cleared for the armies, the burial pyre was already massive. "This isn't enough. Bring more. More wood. More...anything." The young girl's voice was quiet. This blessed sister of hers, this wondrous woman of strength who understood her more closely than anyone else in these recent days, was taken from her. But...she felt nothing. She felt hollow and empty. And yet she knew how she must act. If she didn't act sad, filled with grief, people would think her strange and send her away. She needed to be here. She had to see Beatrice burn. She owed it to the woman for understanding, even if Naomi felt nothing. The exhausted laborers silently nodded at the princess' words, and labored on- bringing great logs, many branches, felling whole trees at her orders. The burial pyre grew. Greater, larger, wider, until Naomi was satisfied. What was intended to have started to burn at sun's fall had now been postponed for hours as Naomi refused to allow the funeral to begin until everything was just perfect. It wasn't until her father stepped forward and placed a hand on the young girl's head that she tore her gaze off of the ever-growing mound. "Flower, that's enough. Even Beatrice would scoff at the funeral you've built for her. Let her go, Flower. Let her rest." Giles spoke to his daughter in a tone of iron. No feeling. Naomi smiled wanly up at her father- her own dead eyes meeting her father's gaze of metal. She could see through his façade, see through him and straight into his soul- the rage bubbling within the man's tired bones. She nodded and pulled away, turning her back on the pyre and striding back to the safe distance where her brother waited. For his part, Eli had remained unbudging, unwavering, and unbending for the entire process. He hadn't spoken a word, just stood there cold, silent, and in all his imperious elegance as he let his sister work until perfection. He would've stood vigil there for a month if he needed to, unmoving until his youngest sister was satisfied. Naomi placed her feet in the ground and turned, standing at Eli's side, as Beatrice's body was carried to the pyre. "Did you see how she fell, brother?" Naomi asked softly. "Yes." Was Eli's reply, following one of his customary silences. "Will retribution be had?" "Yes." "Can I help?" This question warranted Eli turning his analytical eyes to his youngest sister. "Yes, Naomi. Yes you can." He said with a small smile. A vicious smile that he saw reflected in the young girl's own features. He couldn't comprehend how she'd changed, but he knew he could rely on her when the time came. That knowledge made the pain dull slightly...but until this funeral was complete, it was all Eli could do to hold onto his emotions. His immense intellect was straining to keep the storm in check even now. "I'll tell you what you can do when I need you. Deal?" "Deal, brother." Naomi said coldly, turning her dead eyes to stare at the pyre as they struggled to hoist Beatrice into the monstrosity of wood Naomi had constructed. "The next time I see a fire like this, I'll be a married woman." She said with a derisive snort. And with those words, Beatrice's body was placed into its final resting place. The Old Man blew a whistle, shrill as ever, and a dozen torches were tossed onto the pyre. Drevala was nowhere to be seen during this entire ordeal, and none of her kin knew where she had disappeared to. As the blaze grew, higher, stronger, more passionate, each of the Blackwells felt that something great had been lost. A daughter. A trustworthy soldier. A teacher. ------ Drevala sat and thought about her talk with Lanaya. She was poised in the top branches of a tree and stared up into the light of the moon. Far off in the distance she could witness the great bonfire of Beatrice Blackwell- a beacon of light in the darkness of night. She still couldn't bear to face her family, couldn't bear to hold herself before them a failure, but she had to be here to witness her sister's funeral. She wouldn't have missed it for the world. Her tears had dried up, but her grief still raged deep within her. Lana had assured her there was nothing she could have done- but that's a lie. Drevala knew it deep in her heart. She always had a choice. Always had the power to have saved her sister- and the mages of the collective as well! She could have brought fire and brimstone down on her foes and saved everyone she loved, but fear gripped her heart as tightly as grief- If she had saved her sister with dragon's fire, she might have doomed Lana and the other mages to persecution with her actions. She had to choose who she wanted to risk, choose whose life she had to preserve, and deep within her heart she knew she would make the same choice she made again, and again, and again. Who was Beatrice Blackwell compared to Lanaya and the Collective? Beatrice was a dead end, a way of thinking that would've lead to conflict with the Collective- but even as Drevala tried to think that way, tried to crush her grief with magical pride, it fell away in an instant for what it was; illusion. Drevala had been trying desperately to work her grief into something productive, try to drown herself in magical theory and work with the collective...but in meetings all she found herself doing was nodding along and agreeing with Lana... Oh Lana...Lana was so smart, so courageous, so capable... She was glad Eli had her, glad her brother could rely on Lanaya. But she herself couldn't do what they did- couldn't be rational, couldn't assert pragmatism over feeling. All she could do was feel. And feel. And hate herself for not being good enough. If she was willing to do more, had studied harder, perhaps...perhaps Naomi would be back to the way she used to be, perhaps Beatrice would be alive. And so it's with this bubbling hatred for herself, this grief at the loss of a sister, this determination that she would save everyone, that she tore her gaze off of the bonfire in the distance and back to the notebook she bore in her hand. She was dancing the lines of taboo and abomination, and knew that if anyone found these notes of hers it'd ruin everything the Collective was trying to do. She lifted a piece of coal in her hand and returned to her notes, even as her sister's body burned. "Scales or fur...Oh, I could possibly expand the bone structure to...no, no not that...I'd need to do away with those organs entirely!...The fur is problematic, but if I ...Maybe. Maybe this'll work..." she muttered to herself. "Oh Lana, I wish I could tell you what I'm thinking, what I'm researching, but if I do...Oh if I do you might tell me not to!" She lamented. "But I must! I must push the boundaries! I will not lose anyone else!" She said with conviction as her eyes sharpened in the moonlight, tears beginning to flow once more as she calmly continued working her formulae and notes. When the sun rose, she'd fly back to Nyhem and return to her studies in Restoration, but for this night... this night she worked on her own secret notes. --- The Pyre that Naomi Blackwell had constructed for her sister burned for a full day straight. The Great Pyre, as it became known, was a testament to the feelings the family, and people of Mercy, had felt for the warrior princess. [/hider] [hider=A Schism of the Swords] [b]"It's your fault she's dead!"[/b] Eli's enraged yell flew across the decrepit stone garden kept by Giles Blackwell. The Old Man tilted his head just slightly at the accusation, before shaking his head and snorting. "Rage isn't becoming of you, boy. I'd suggest you take a more reverent tone." Eli shook his head in exasperation and stood his ground, his shackled emotions raging against his rationality and creating this surgical anger that he's focusing on his father. "Reverence? For you? A man who stood back and watched his daughter die? A man who could've killed a king, kept a daughter, then turned and won a second war in the blink of an eye?! What madness is this, father, that has taken you? Why must you be so lost in your own pride that you fail to see the opportunities right in front of you?" Eli strode forward until he was before his father, where his rage burned plain as day in his piercing eyes. "You stood back. Watched Mandarass kill her. Then let him escape, and for what- another man to have called the day his victory while we recuperate and weep? You call yourself a warrior king?! [b]Does this sound like a victory to you?![/b]." Giles stared up at his son with nothing but...exhaustion in his features. "Boy. If you feel so strongly, you know the rules. They've been the same since before you were born. If you've got a bone to pick, draw steel. If not, shut your mouth and sit the fuck down." Eli trembled. He knew a challenge when he saw one. Knew how his father worked. Knew his father would bury him the day after burying his daughter in a heartbeat. But he could also see his father's weakness, and he was fuelled by the confusion of grief, and so without a moment's hesitation he drew the elegant rapier from his hips and brandished the sword. "Fine. I'll do this your way, you old fool." He said calmly as he backed up a few steps and gestured with his blade for the Old Man to rise. Giles sighed a deep breath and rose to his feet, not even bothering to pick up his weapons. "You feel that strongly, eh?" He seemed amused, and shut his eyes for a moment. "Fine, boy. Let's see if you're a man yet." Giles moved forward, already moving to duck the thrust of Eli's rapier, and slammed his son into the stone ground with one well practiced maneuver. A knee pinned Eli's arm down, rendering his rapier useless, and the Old Man stared down at his son with a frown. A deep frown. Eli surged his other arm up and, to his surprise, actually punched his father straight in the jaw. The Old Man rocked back from the blow and stared down at his son. "Huh. You're not just spitting fire, are you boy? You feel so strongly you actually hit me?" Giles said in a dry tone. Eli, for his part, felt all his anger die the instant he struck his father. He wanted to back down, take back his challenge, apologize and bow- but he had his own pride. His own agenda. Now that the storm within him had died, he couldn't believe he'd taken things this far, but he refused to be cowed before his own father. He hadn't bowed to anyone since he was he was a boy and he wasn't about to start now. So all he did was rest his gaze, now calm, no longer on fire, on his father. A silent conversation danced between them, before Giles rose up and lifted Eli to his feet. "Very well, boy. I never liked the crown anyway. It's yours." Giles said without a moment's hesitation. Giles proceeded to then crack his neck and chuckle wholeheartedly. "It's funny you hit me the day after your sister's burnin'. Almost like a ghost came back and hit me for being such a bastard to her for all those years." the old man shook his head. Eli comprehended and registered his father's words as soon as he said them, but he frowned rather than smiled. He'd gotten what he was anticipating for so long- but not after his father's death as he had expected. The Old Man was simply...abdicating? Eli had never expected this, had simply been acting out on his emotions in the privacy of the garden where he could be angry with no repercussions, but... Eli shut his eyes and lifted his face to the sky. His father understood how he felt. Of course he did, Giles must be feeling the same way deep down. They all missed Beatrice. And as soon as he was thinking clearly again, he understood why his father was giving up the crown. "Give Mandarass hell for us all, Old Man." Eli finally said, reaching out and clasping his father's hand in his own. "Take whatever you need." "I'll do things my way, you do things yours. You probably won't see me again, boy, so don't fuck this up." Giles said simply, before pulling his hand back, picking up his weaponry, and simply walking away. As Eli watched his father's back leave the garden, he felt the weight of what had just transpired fully fall upon his shoulders. He didn't bend- in fact, he stood up straighter. No longer was he crown prince. He was High King. He had work to do. ---- Eli did not advertise his father's abdication. He didn't want any perceived weaknesses in the transition of power to himself. The administration of three kingdoms was a weighty task for him, but he handled it well. Eli Blackwell had been destined for a throne from day 1, and now that he was finally on it his ambitions hadn't been quelled. Alenius, Glarmion, and Akki were hardly all of Formaroth. He wrote a hundred letters in that first week, detailing his plans for a singular powerful economy to flow through all three kingdoms, as well as plans for a refurbished and rebuilt naval structure. It wasn't until a letter from Nyhem, inviting the Blackwells to a celebration of victory, reached Eli that he finally allowed himself to stop working. "He throws a party weeks after his city burns. His people must simply love him." Eli said as he analyzed the invitation. He debates writing a letter in return stating his intention of arriving, but then he shakes his head of the idea and laughs to himself. "I want to see his face when he learns I'm the one wearing the crown." Thusly Eli began preparations for arriving at Nyhem well ahead of the advertised date. [/hider] [Hider=Mercenaries will be Mercenaries - A Klomstabboration, courtesy of Klomster and Fading/Phoenix] While the young lord prepared for a surprise visit to Nyhem, a mysterious figure issued a challenge to the Steel Fist.... "You all really should have just let me challenge Claus from the start." The helmeted man said as he knelt and cleaned his blade, wiping the small amount of blood off of it. He hadn't killed anyone, hadn't brought death to a single challenger- but he'd made his skill known. "In fact... I think I'll hold you all prisoner until your boss finally faces me himself. You." The helmeted man pointed his sword at a bloodied Steel Fist mercenary, who pointed at himself dumbly as if uncertain that he was the one being indicated. "Yes...You. Run back to Nyhem, fetch me your boss, or I'll bury your friends here. I want to fight Claus Rotstein. I won't be delayed any further by your idiots and your loyalty. Run before I get angr-" Before the helmeted soldier could even finish his sentence, the Steel Fist mercenary turned and crawled to his feet from the ground and began to run back to Nyhem, clutching a bloodied and wounded arm as he ran. The helmeted man laughed and looked to the remaining 'challengers' he had faced of the Steel Fist. They were splayed about the farm in various positions, and fielding various injuries; stabbed legs, sliced arms, bruised egos, and battered pride. No fatal injuries whatsoever, but debilitating ones indeed. The Helmeted man had two companions with him, also dressed as he was; A Steel Fist mercenary, but they were neither wielding weapon nor assisting the helmeted man. They simply stood back, silently, observing the scene. "You're all fine soldiers. Claus should be proud of you." He said to them as he sat down and faced them, broadsword still clutched in his right hand. "Go on, tell me about yourselves... We may as well share stories while we wait for him to get here." He egged them on, trying to get them to talk about themselves and tell him about the steel fist...He was going to wait for Claus, and knew his men wouldn't delay telling him of this...'hostage' situation.... [b]Later in the Steel fist camp. Command tent.[/b] Claus had barely gotten time to sit down and get to his usual comfy position with his legs crossed over the desk as a corpsman entered his tent and excused himself. -"Boss, someone beat up Jiddy and several of Roogel's men are missing, he's recovering since he collapsed after running into the camp." Claus looked up at him with tired eyes and just stared at his soldier who dutifully gave him the news. A massive sigh was Claus response, he hadn't even gotten a rest after the meeting with the king and already there was stuff going wrong. He got up with a heavy gait and waved for the man to show him where the problem was. After a brisk walk the two got to the exhausted man now in a bed, his left arm wounded but not too serious. He was wincing and panting and at first didn't notice Claus entering the barber surgeon tent. -"Jiddy, what happened to ya? Where's the others." Claus voice was stern and serious, none of the usual attitude. Jiddy opened his eyes and noticed his captain, moved for a salute but Claus motioned for him to stop so the corpsman just spoke. -"There was this guy, he called out that he wanted to challenge you boss, for the Steel fist or something.... Fat chance we thought, so Arch rounded up me and a few others to go and teach him a lesson..." He paused to collect his senses for a moment, Claus motioned for him to carry on. -"So we cornered the bastard over in the nearby farms, Arch moved in to fight him.... but damn, he was crazy fast. Fought with a single sword, didn't even need anything in his off-hand, he just sidestepped Arch and fell him and pommeled his neck in a single move.... so we moved in and tried to clobber him, but he took us all out. Reminded me of you boss, the way you move on a battlefield while outnumbered.... he was crazy strong, knew all attacks where coming..... damn scary actually." Jiddy lost focus and panted for a while before getting his senses back. -"I was cut somewhere in the middle of it, it felt like he took us all out in the time i backed off because of the wound.... Told me he wanted to fight you boss, or he'd bury them. I didn't even let him finish, i knew i was in over my ears. Sorry boss for running...." He was shedding some tears at the end of it, Claus however just showed him his palm motioning for him to stop. -"You did the right thing, this man was damn good. You couldn't have taken him. Did you see who he was?" -"No boss, he had a full helmet on." -"I see, very well, rest up for now. It seems i need to handle this..." Claus got a bit annoyed with this whole affair. He didn't need more duels, he was already up for one duel with someone who was apparently a war hero or something, and from nowhere this other guy comes and demands a fight as well. He brought Roogel and a few of the best from the vanguard and moved out. Six of them total. --------- The Helmeted Man was glad that he didn't have to wait long. He lifted a hand and cut the Steel Fist merc he'd finally gotten to talk off. The man stopped discussing his opinion on potatoes and how much he hated peeling them with a start, suddenly trembling in fear at the helmeted man's outstretched hand. "Alright you can cut your yapping, your boss is finally showing up." He rose up off the ground and sheathed his broadsword at his hip. He strode away from the injured group he'd been discussing with and into the center of the road, his own two mercenaries striding and standing some distance behind him. Now that they've moved out into the open, it is apparent that they weren't just not wielding weapons, they weren't carrying any at all. One was carrying a large wooden case, the other a large pack of travelling supplies. It seems this helmeted man in the road was the sole warrior of the trio. The Helmeted Man struck a Steel Fist salute, and stayed silent as Claus and his posse approached. He didn't call our or budge from the middle of the road, putting the weight of action on Claus. With a clenched fist Claus ordered his support to stop, he himself kept walking until he was a comfortable six or so metres away from the mysterious swordsman. It was obvious he was good, the way he moved and the confidence in the posture. The familiarity with the steel fist salute was also a bit uncanny. Claus eyed the swordsman and laid his hands on his hips. He didn't have a greatsword, he hadn't had time to get hold of one so he was stuck with a mace and his misericord. -"So who are you supposed to be, coming here and beating up my men, yabbying nonsense of fighting me and to top it off not introducing yourself." Claus spat a massive spittle and kicked the ground. -"You already know, but I'm gonna be more polite than usual, I'm Claus Rotstein, captain of the Steel fist, next in line for the title of royal advisor of war and thus massively important. Who are you?" The Helmeted man stayed silent for several moments, before breaking the salute and laughing. Heartily. "Claus Rotstein! About damn time! Your boys here tried to put in the good word for you." The Helmeted man strode forward and offered Claus an extended hand for a handshake. "Can you trust the men you brought to keep things quiet between us, or do I need to put them all to sleep before talkin' to ya?" -"I trust them all with my life, most of them are better at keeping their mouth shut than me anyway." Claus didn't respond to the hand-shake but wasn't hostile either. -"I'll have nothing off knocking my men about. So, what do you want? And again, who are you?" The Helmeted Man left his hand there, in the air between them. He paused and turned his gaze to study the wounded soldiers, then the group Claus had come with. "I'm just a tired, old, man." He finally said, lifting his other hand to remove the helmet. The face of the man who was thusly revealed was none other than Giles Blackwell, The Old Man. As he pulled the helmet off, his long white hair fell down his back and made his appearance even more pronounced. His eyes fell on Claus with the weight of a man who's seen far, far, too much in his life- But he seemed...tired. As if his age was finally catching up to him. "Shake my hand before I punch you with it." He stated flatly. Claus thought for a while when the old man revealed his identity to him, he'd heard the stories, even seen him once in the distance some ten years ago or so when speaking to Doroka Hawk, then leader of the steel fist. But with a sudden realization Claus eyes spurred into focus and he instinctively shook his hand. -"Never thought I'd speak with you old man." Claus mentioned while giving a solid handshake. The white hair, the gait and the tiredness of war, it could be none other than old man Blackwell himself. -"So what have i done to earn your ire?" The steelhead added in before letting his handshake go. An eyebrow hinting of being raised. "Left my daughter unsatisfied." He said gruffly in response, before pulling his hand back. "She died without having had a chance to test you. You might be the only man in Formaroth who can claim to have vexed her." He laughed a deep laugh at that, shaking his head. He turned and began walking towards the farmhouse, waving a hand for Claus to follow. "I see you carry a Bludgeon. Beatrice said you showed a particular interest in her sword. In need of a new one, or were you just playing nice with the warrior princess?" A bit confused, he followed along. -"Nothing really, I'd just never seen anyone with a weapon like hers. Just plain curiosity. I mean, who fights with a massive wooden stick?" With a slight pause he motioned for Roogel to come to the house as well, but keep their distance. -"As for the hammer, 'tis just my sidearm, i lost two swords in Telmarion, haven't had a chance to get a new one yet." "Well, cancel any work orders you've given your smiths. You're leaving here today with a new sword." Giles stated flatly as he pushed open the door to the farmhouse and moved to sit himself down at a large table. "I don't give gifts often, but you're in a curious place in the world, Claus Rotstein. You said you were the future War Councilor, eh?" Giles laughed heartily. "Giving up the sport for a shiny badge of office, or perhaps you've come to think of the Snake as a friend? Satisfy my curiosity and there could be an opportunity sitting right in front of you." Following inside, Claus looked around to try and spot the trap. Not seeing one he calmed and went along with the curious conversation. -"Let's hope it's more sturdy than the last ones. The first one I sort of didn't treat right though." He said with a smirk recalling how it broke. -"As for the position, I got a taste of nobility and want in on it. Wanna show pops I can get somewhere in life without inheriting." Seeing that he and Giles was actually alone in the room he leaned over and spoke a bit more silent. His face cast into a slightly eerie dark. -"And who knows, I might even be landed, like yourself, or something even better..." The telltale smirk on his face, he let it sink in before leaning back again. -"So, you want to bribe me? Or just be friends? I'm all for both really, but I can't make any promises." He added as he found a chair to sit down on opposite the old man. "The sword is a gift. It was to go to Beatrice, but she's dead. I had it made for her after the Dragon War, but she hadn't earned it. If she had defeated Andris and proven herself, she would've received it. I don't plan on staying in Formaroth, and my son hasn't earned it... So I decided to find someone who would put the blade to good use." Giles offered a grim smile. "A sword is a tool of war, you've earned it from all the talk I heard of the Steel Fist's work." He blows a shrill whistle with his lips, and the soldier with the wooden case came into the room and placed the large case on the table, sliding it in front of Giles, before bowing and leaving. "As for a bribe...I have two offers." He places his hand on the wooden case and slides it over to Claus. "The first is simple; My son will pay you extremely well for any information you get from The Snake. Hell, if you're willing to switch contracts he might be willing to buy you off of The Snake. I don't care what you do now that I've made the offer, it's not my fight anymore. I owed it to the lad to at least put the thought in your head. Alenius is rich." He leans forward and taps the table with his fingertips. "This one I offer you for Beatrice and the Fist. Have you ever hunted a dragon, Claus? I know the Fist's history, they tried it in the past and failed, but I'm asking about you." Obviously curious about the box, Claus had a hard time keeping his eyes from it. All the while being offered money for things a loyal puppet would consider treason against the crown. In the end, he spoke calmly. -"As always I am a mercenary. So money gets you a long way, but the De Reimer's are the most wealthy house of you all. So for buying my loyalty, I don't think you can afford it." He paused slightly, his mouth formed a smirk. -"However, seeing you are an old friend of old Doroka Hawk, I could easily send letters of friendship. Perhaps in exchange for some Orog wine. After all, friendship is important in this time and age and I think we understand each other." He ended the sentence with a slight grin. -"As for dragons... never a real one..." Claus vision became distant for a second, recalling another place. His smirk exchanged for a troubled and tired looking visage, reminding of the old tired eyes of Giles himself. Shaking his head slightly to get the thoughts out of his head, he began to examine the box, checking for how it opens. The wooden box was simple- a case for carrying a great sword. It wasn't locked, nor sealed. Why should it have been? It was escorted by The Old Man himself. No lock was needed. It had a simple latch that only needed to be lifted to reveal the contents within. "Send your letters, friendship is a wonderful thing." He agreed. "As for my point with asking the dragons...There are dragons still in the mountains in the southern half of Alenius. They're no trouble to the people nor the mines, and if you have the desire or opportunity, you're welcome to try your hand at it. This sword should make it a simpler task than it ordinarily is." Giles rose up and placed his hand on the wooden case. "Bear it with pride, Claus Rotstein. It was meant for my daughter after all. If I hear you lost it or sold it, I'll find you. IF you manage to break it, I'll be impressed." The Old Man nodded, and moved to the door of the farmhouse, pausing before he left. "I won't be in Formaroth much longer. Loose ends to tie up across the seas. Give the Old Hawk my regards, he might outlive me at this rate." Seeing there was no nails or locks, Claus opened the box with a flick while looking at Giles. -"I know how it ended for the dwarf, I think I'll leave dragons to the dragon slayers." Claus said with a smirk, he stood up and began to remove the hay which protected the sword in transit, or more like kept it in place in the box. He kept talking while doing so. -"If I see the scraggy old bird I'll tell him, so what's your plan? Beilokias? Seikatsu?" It was here ho got the first good look at the weapon, slowly lifting it out of the box and studying it closely. The box opened, the hay was cleared. Within would lie a blade of unrivalled caliber. Reflecting an iridescent and metallic green, the sword's focal point is its remarkably wide blade that measures in at two hands wide which glints brilliantly when the light strikes it. The weight indicates it is Steel at its core, gilded with draconian scales. Uniquely, every inch of the scaled blade is pounded into a patterned formation, each overlapping structure ascending the sword to come to a finely sharpened edge. The guard itself is planted into the base of the blade and embellished with a pair of talons of a drake rising upward which creates an advantageous nook to lock weapons between. The long grip was whittled bone which was tightly wrapped with treated leather that allowed the largest of men to hold it with ease. Beneath that rested the fierce insignia of a dragon -- a pommel with a vicious and archaic design of a great scaly head with teeth clenched and its bright eyes featuring the same scales of the blade creating an eye-catching yet simple motif to set it apart from all others. In the hands of Beatrice Blackwell, this sword would've wreaked havoc on the battlefield. The ultimate shield turned into the ultimate sword. "Wherever Andris Mandarass goes, I will follow." Is all the Old Man seemed to want to say on that front. "Enjoy court life, Claus. It didn't suit me." And with those words, The Old Man disappeared out the door and left this farm house behind, his compatriots in tow. Claus brought the sword and ran to the door, just to see Giles moving away. He thought of something clever to say, how he'd like to spar with the living legend, something to show sympathy about Beatrice, but in the end he only managed to say. -"Give him a punch in the gut from me, he owes me that much!" Before he returned to his men who were awed by the event and the vicious blade now in Claus possession. [/hider] [hider=An Old Man and his Shadow] Vivian Blackwell stretched languorously as she awaited her uncle. She'd been scrubbing floors and kitchen utensils for months now, and to be quite honest she was very tired of it all. The war had ended and she hadn't gotten to kill anyone, and Beatrice Blackwell of all people got all the glory! It irritated her to no end. "We finally have another war and what do I get to do? Play maid. Fuck you, uncle, your coin is barely worth this depravity..." She sighed and looked up at the sky to see the moon moving lowering steadily. "You're late..." She grunted, before pulling her hood up to shield her face as she grabbed her crossbow. "And you know the rules, Uncle; you're late, I leave." As soon as she went to take a step, however, the sound of approaching footfalls made her hit the ground and slide silently into the nearby brush. It wasn't until a few moments later that she saw the visage of her Uncle stride into the clearing that she had a dubious and wonderful thought cross her mind. Why not shoot Giles Blackwell, then tell Alasdair and get paid for it? It only entered her mind briefly, before she exited her hiding spot and made herself known. "You're late. Why risk this meeting, uncle?" "I'm no longer king. I came to tell you that Eli will be your handler now. Your reports are to go to him." This puzzled Vivian, but she nodded. "The boy handles his coin well, I know I'll get paid. Where are you going?" The Old Man refused to answer and stared Vivian down. The girl gave him a sheepish grin, before shrugging. "I had to try. If Eli fucks up, I figured I could score some decent coin selling your location... Though, knowing you, it wouldn't be a secret anyway. Got it, I report to Eli. Anything else?" "Claus Rotstein is to be the new war councilor." Giles stated easily, making Vivian quirk an eyebrow up; "You already know? Well damn, what do you pay me for Old Man?" "I pay you to keep the information reliable and constant, and now I've got a new job for you as well. Listen up, I won't say this more than once..." Vivian couldn't help but smile as she heard the job Giles had in mind. It was good to be back in action. [/hider]