Stratya Durmand

Time: 2nd Ignis, Evening
Location: Tough Tavern
Attire: Fine Dress
Boar Mantle of Spring Hunting - head’s at home, the bulky thing
A Dirk - strapped in, strapped down
Swordbreaker - strapped in, strapped down
Interactions: Charlotte
Mentions: Kalliope, Marius, Garran, Drake, Sjan-Dehk, Cynwaer, Olivia

@princess@Lava Alckon@Tae@ReusableSword@samreaper@Potter@Apex Sunburn

More bodies had spilled in from the kitchen. Kalliope had been pinned and now seemed hurt. Garran had reloaded. Charlotte was safe. The front doors opened and more entered. Right. Garran was her greatest concern. She considered her hands, their state, the pain she felt in both. Her left ached more, but she couldn’t tell if that was from taking a knife or from spell use. Probably both. She had to do something, or-

Her heart froze when Garran pulled the trigger, but it.. didn’t work. The hammer gave nothing meaningful and nothing happened. And then he died. Stratya followed the bullet’s trajectory and the sound of the shot to find Drake had freed himself and promptly saved his sister.

The relief she felt was short-lived. The words had passed her by, but she felt the change in the air. She heard the terrible squelch of flesh against broken flesh. The recognition formed a pit in her stomach before she even turned to find Lady Olivia, with the shadows of dark magic clung to her, destroying the remains of Marius. And then it was over, and the young lady was left to the aftershock of such darkness.

Had Stratya gotten her hands on Maelen, she would have given her the grace of listing in brief her wrongs, so she could understand her death, and in the afterlife repent that she might do better next time.

The use of magic to assault, rob, and torture. Above that, the use of magic to murder.

She looked now upon a citizen who had just used magic to kill.

Before she could do anything about the rather dark section of grey area in front of her, a call of distress. Kalliope’s voice. It didn’t matter who’s name she called, her desperation was enough.

There she was, Kalliope. Being taken through the kitchen door. “No!”

The Fury flashed into her eyes, she dropped into a sprint and vaulted the counter, too. She charged through the double action doors to the kitchen just in time to catch the motion of the rear kitchen door end. As she neared the outside, she remembered herself and shut the Fury away. In doing so, the exhaustion caught her all at once. There was no way she could give chase without exposing herself.

The Knight growled and slammed her right fist on a nearby barrel, her left now carefully tucked against her body. The bleeding had stopped already. Even so, her right ached too much, and the painful extremity was held out in front of her as though she were attempting to squeeze the pain from it like water. No time. As Lady Charlotte came out from the Tavern after her, she whistled a loud, peculiar, piercing pattern into the night air.

It was then she noticed the young lady. Aaah, shit.

She smiled softly, at least happy to see her safe, “ye’rr alrrigh’, Lady Charrlo’e?” Wait, no, “oh, yerr head. Le’ me see..” Her left arm remained tucked close as she stepped closer to Charlotte, her right coming in to gently cup her head to hold her still while she looked at the injury. “... coulda been worrse, easy. We’ll still ‘ave tae ge’ ye some attention, tho’.”

A firelock’s crack, sharp and strident, answered Cynric’s taunting words. Barely two handspans away from his head, the doorframe shuddered and splintered, a single lead ball burying itself in the wood with a solid, heavy thud. The two young arcanists behind him let out surprised squeaks and yelps as they scrambled to find safety—Yasawen practically leaping back out through the doorway, while Inshahri pressed herself into Sjan-dehk’s shadow.

The two captains, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch.

Cynric spared the newly-made divot in the doorframe a fleeting, disdainful glance. He clicked his tongue, a look of utter disgust creasing his features. “Feckin’ typical,” he grumbled, as if he’d just been served a mug of watered-down ale. “Ye cunts cannae e’en kill a man right. ‘Ow feckin’ typical.”

Then, in one fluid motion, he drew his pistol, took aim, and pulled the trigger. A man standing near the bar, half-hidden by an overturned table, jerked backwards as if he’d been yanked by a rope. His eyes widened, and his firelock—a hefty pepperbox handgun—fell from his limp fingers. Pitted iron and dull wood clattered onto the floorboards. A heartbeat later, the man followed, toppling sideways into a heap beside the table.

“There,” Cynric said with a wry smirk. “Now that’s ‘ow you kill a man, aye.”

Sjan-dehk paid neither his quip nor the dead gunman any heed. His attention had already slipped past the armed thugs, the violence they’d wrought, and their victims, settling instead on the bar. Behind it, a woman stood with one hand raised before her. The air itself seemed to tremble as black, ethereal tendrils slithered like snakes from every dark corner around the bar. They swirled and coalesced into a writhing, pulsing ball hovering just above her palm.

She looked towards the tavern’s doors—towards him. Malevolence burned in her eyes.

Sjan-dehk met her gaze, expression unchanged.

“Shahri, Yasa, stay back,” he called out tersely. “But watch the bar.”

Without another word—or waiting for their reply—he launched himself forward. Whatever spell the arcanist was preparing had to be stopped. And while that was Yasawen’s responsibility, Sjan-dehk doubted the boy could ready his wards and protect himself—and Inshahri and Cynric, for that matter—against the enemy at the same time. Someone would have to distract the woman until Yasawen could silence her—an incredibly dangerous task, and so Sjan-dehk naturally decided that he would be the one to do it.

Despite his heavy boots, and the swiftness of his movements, his footfalls remained muted. The further he strayed from the tavern’s entrance, the closer the stale tavern air pressed around him. Stained by the tang of blood and acrid sting of burnt powder, its scent was foul in his nose, and tasted worse on his tongue. He ignored it, however, just as he ignored so many other things. The clamour of fights; the faces in the crowd; the dancing shadows cast by the tavern’s lamps—they all blurred into the background.

And out of this blur, someone emerged.

Sjan-dehk noted nothing of their appearance or their person—all he knew, and all he cared about was that they were charging him with a knife in hand. A ferocious roar tore from their lips, but ferocity alone couldn’t make up for lack of skill. They moved too quickly, and held their weapon at all the wrong angles and all the wrong heights. Sjan-dehk didn’t even break his stride—he met the knife-wielders’ charge head-on, pulling one of his swords from its sheath. The blade flashed silver and orange in the lamplight.

Then, it drew a crimson arc through the air after biting into flesh.

Sjan-dehk deftly stepped out of the falling corpse’s way. Blood still spurted in bursts from its ruined throat.

Barely a couple of heartbeats later, a chair hurtled towards him. Instinct made him duck, but even if he had stood upright and jumped, it would’ve still missed him by a wide margin. It struck the floor behind him, and shattered into a spray of splinters and cracked fittings. The person who’d thrown it stood directly in front of Sjan-dehk. Once again, he didn’t bother noticing their looks. What point was there in remembering details of someone who’d soon be dead and forgotten?

The chair-thrower’s arms were still half-raised when Sjan-dehk reached them. He gave them no chance to bring their hands to the axe at their belt, and ran them through with almost no effort. Cold steel cut through cloth and flesh, sinking deep into the chair-thrower’s chest. A surprised gasp flew from their lips, their eyes widened, and they did nothing more. With a sharp, precise twist of the blade, Sjan-dehk pulled his weapon free. He didn’t bother looking at the body as it collapsed to the floor.

Another shiver rippled through the air, this one stronger than the last.

Sjan-dehk scowled. Time was running out. The enemy arcanist had to be dealt with now.

The black mass in her palm had grown, the faint, spindly tendrils feeding it snapping, recoiling, and pulling taut, much like ropes caught in a tempestuous wind. It constantly shifted, undulating and churning, almost like it was a living creature. The woman curled her fingers around it, pressing them into its scintillating, oily surface. Her lips curved into a wicked smile. A chill crawled down Sjan-dehk’s spine, and his steps slowed until he was just pacing in front of the bar. Still, he fixed her with a defiant glare.

Part of him was tempted to simply shoot her—at such close distances, he wouldn’t even need to aim to kill her. His hand drifted closer to his pistol. Varnished wood felt cool against his fingertips. But he held himself back. Arcane energy controlled by an enemy was still better than arcane energy controlled by nothing. For all he knew, killing the woman might make things worse.

He clenched his jaw. He would have to let her cast, and have faith in Yasawen.

Either that, or have faith in his own agility.

The woman’s lips moved. She tilted her head back, looking at him from behind her nose. Then, she yelled something—Sjan-dehk couldn’t tell which language it was, let alone discern any words. The black mass of energy flew towards him, splitting mid-air into a fan of razor-sharp darts.

“Yasa!” he shouted, his legs already pushing him to the side.

Then, the floor shifted.

Sand surged through the cracks between the floorboards in hissing streams. Stones and pebbles punched holes through some planks, and tore others completely from their nails and fittings. They compacted into a solid, misshapen wall of earth in front of Sjan-dehk—large enough to shield the tavern’s entrance from the woman’s spell. The black darts struck the wall, dissipating harmlessly with quiet hisses, their dark vapours drifting away like gunsmoke.

Sjan-dehk looked over his shoulder. Yasawen stood beside Inshahri, his arm outstretched, and shoulders heaving with laboured breaths. The boy swallowed. “Thou shalt be silent!” he shouted, clenching his hand into a fist.

The wall burst into a cloud of sand and debris, and swept across the tavern towards the woman.

Sjan-dehk wasted no time, and followed closely behind it. He kept his eyes on the enemy arcanist, a smirk forming on his lips as he saw the manic confidence on her face give way first to confusion, and then finally to abject fear. She turned to flee, a shriek on her lips, but it was too late. Sand wrapped around her ankles, the stones and pebbles rattling on the floor at her feet. The swirling maelstrom rapidly spiralled up the rest of her body, until only her face was left exposed.

She growled and grunted as she tried to move her limbs, but it was hopeless. The more she struggled, the tighter the sand compacted around her, and the more the little, sharp grains tore into her skin. She opened her mouth. Whether she wanted to scream, to curse, or to attempt another spell, Sjan-dehk wouldn’t know, as the sand reacted in an instant. It churned and roiled, rising like a muddy tide over her chin, and poured down her throat.

By the time Sjan-dehk vaulted over the bar, it was all over.

The woman lay half-buried in a crumbling mound of compacted sand and stone. Rivulets of blood trickled down her arms and legs, flowing from the many lacerations on her body. For a moment, Sjan-dehk thought she’d died, but then he saw the dark, crystalline grains falling from her mouth with each weak breath. She was still alive. Insensate, with no fight left in her, but still alive. And more importantly, he saw a green sigil, faintly glowing, on her forehead—Yasawen’s work, no doubt.

He allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief. The robber’s arcanists had been silenced.

That was one victory, at least.

But it wasn’t one he could savour for long. A guttural shout to his left drew his attention, and he turned just in time to step out of the way of a knife thrust over the bar. He twisted his body, allowing his attacker’s arm to pass in front of him, and caught it by the wrist. Moving without hesitation, he ducked behind the bar, and slammed the man’s elbow against the counter’s edge. He howled in pain and let go of the knife. Sjan-dehk stood back up, and while his opponent was still nursing their wounded joint, he jumped back over the bar, his boot catching the man in the chin.

Sjan-dehk landed on his feet. His opponent went crashing to the floor.

The man groaned, and tried to push himself up onto his knees. Sjan-dehk didn’t let him—he marched over and speared the man through the neck with his sword. Blood spattered on the floor. The man gurgled and choked, and keeled over.

That was three thugs taken care of.

Sjan-dehk looked further into the tavern. His eyes narrowed. There were many, many more to deal with.

Time to work.

Sjan-dehk moved.

The first man that charged him came with a truncheon raised high. Much like the first knife-wielder, he was moving too quickly, and without any sense of control. Sjan-dehk easily avoided his wild swing, lashing out with his sword in a clean slice across the man’s stomach. Steel bit into flesh, and opened a gaping wound in his abdomen. The man stumbled forward, crashed into a table, and moved no more.

Another thug lunged at him from the side, his axe’s blade gleaming in the lamplight. Sjan-dehk evaded the first swing. He deflected the second, and on the third, he struck—he dropped low, surprising the thug. The axe cut through the empty space above Sjan-dehk’s hat. His sword sliced into the thug’s knee. With a loud cry, the man stumbled and fell.

Before Sjan-dehk could finish him, a pistol rang out. The man jerked, then went still. A bloodstain bloomed on his chest.

He looked up, and met Cynric’s gaze. “I’ve got ye back, pal,” the Recompense’s captain said.

Sjan-dehk gave him a nod. Then, he kept moving.

Three thugs rushed him at once. One with a dagger, one with a pistol, and the last with an axe. Sjan-dehk stared them down, his sword held in front of him. They hesitated. He didn’t. The pistolier managed to fire a panicked shot as Sjan-dehk charged them, the bullet flying into the tavern’s walls. The other two moved to protect the pistolier as he reloaded, placing themselves between him and Sjan-dehk.

A smart move, but not smart enough to save them.

Sjan-dehk ducked beneath the axeman’s swing, and replied with a stab through his gut. The axeman cried out, but grabbed the blade, refusing to let Sjan-dehk pull his weapon free. Sjan-dehk immediately let go of the sword. The axeman fell back. Sjan-dehk kept low and slid away from the dagger-wielder’s lunge. Steel flashed. His opponent swore. Sjan-dehk drew his pistol, and without aiming, landed a single shot squarely between the man’s eyes. The dagger fell to the floor. He collapsed immediately.

By now, the pistolier had reloaded, but it was too late. Sjan-dehk closed the distance before he could even raise his weapon. An elbow slammed into the side of the pistolier’s skull sent him reeling. Then, Sjan-dehk drew another one of his pistols, and gunned him down before he could recover.

That made seven.

The axeman groaned on the floor, Sjan-dehk’s sword still protruding from his belly. Sjan-dehk walked over to him, twisted the weapon, and wrenched it free.

Eight.

He moved through the panicking crowd, ignoring their desperate cries, their meaningless pleas. There had to be more thugs around—he’d seen them earlier. His eyes also searched for Kalliope amongst the myriad faces. He didn’t find her, but that didn’t worry him too much. She had to be here somewhere.

For now, he focused on the men approaching him.

He counted four. Then six. Then eight. Then ten. After that, he stopped counting, and simply cast his frigid gaze over each of them in turn. They were armed with firelocks, swords, axes, hammers—just about every type of weapon one could think of.

Sjan-dehk drew his other sword. Despite the situation, a grin formed on his lips.

“Life is life, and death is death,” he said. “Come, then. Let’s see who gets what today.”

Someone charged him, their hammer swinging in a wide arc. Sjan-dehk stepped out of its way, and lashed out with his sword, the tip of its blade sinking into their shoulder. With his other blade, he deflected a thrust of a knife. The hammer-wielder stumbled back as Sjan-dehk pulled his sword free, spinning around to deal a lethal slash to the knifeman’s throat. Ignoring the hammer-wielder, Sjan-dehk moved on, dropping low to avoid the swing of an axe, and to stab someone in the back of their knee.

Shouts and screams echoed in his ears. A firelock rang out, the bullet crashing into the floorboard right by his feet. A man swung a wooden staff at him. Sjan-dehk twisted out of its way, and stabbed him first in the chest, then in the belly. The staff slipped from limp fingers, clattering to the floor. Sjan-dehk kicked it away, sending it rolling under another thug’s feet.

There was a yell, then a crash—the sound of someone falling over.

Sjan-dehk paid it little heed. He parried the slash of a sword, running its owner through with his own blade, and slid back. A man aimed a pistol at him. Sjan-dehk quickly grabbed the nearest thug, and used him as a shield. His body shuddered, a final breath escaping his lips, as the bullet struck him. Sjan-dehk gave the corpse a hard shove, sending it flying into the thugs.

They scattered, but it didn’t take long before someone charged him again. Sjan-dehk didn’t even take note of their weapon—he simply stabbed the first man that approached, then the second. He let go of his sword both times, and when the third person approached, he shot them down with a single pistol shot. He did the same with the fourth, spinning around to stop them mid-charge with a bullet to the chest.

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

Sjan-dehk didn’t bother holstering his pistol. Instead, he threw it at the next thug who came at him. A hefty weapon, it was enough to send them sprawling to the ground. He drew another pistol and—

“SJAN-DEHK!”

Kalliope’s desperate scream cut through the haze.

Sjan-dehk jerked, as if he’d just awoken from a deep slumber. He blinked several times, taking in the sight before him—the bodies on the ground, the blood seeping into the wood—for what felt like the first time. He drew in a sharp breath. The faces in the crowd became clearer. More distinct. Some, he recognised, even if he couldn’t put names to them.

But none of them were Kalliope’s.

“Kali?” he called out.

A man’s yell answered him. He spun around, raised his pistol, and pulled the trigger. The man stopped, his foot colliding with his ankle, and fell forward.

Fifteen.

“Kali!” Sjan-dehk shouted. He had to find her.

He twisted his body to avoid a sword’s blade. A growl rumbled in his throat. There wasn’t any time for this, not when Kalliope was in trouble. He drove his elbow into the thug’s face, crushing their nose. They reeled back, and Sjan-dehk took the chance to recover his swords. Not a moment later, he deflected the swing of another sword. He slid back. His opponent advanced, and raised his weapon for another attack.

A rope wrapped around the blade, and pulled it clean from his hands.

“I’m here!”

Iyen’s voice preceded her. She flew in from above, landing on the balls of her feet. With a flick of her wrist, the rope in her hands snapped like a whip, and threw the sword aside. The thug, although disarmed, went after her. A giggle, mocking and derisive, escaped her lips as she twirled away with a dancer’s grace, that same movement allowing her to spin, wrap, and unwrap the rope around her body. Someone tried to grab her from behind, but Sjan-dehk got to them first, slicing their wrist open with a precise slash, then stabbing them through the gut.

“Kali’s in trouble!” Iyen shouted out. She was still keeping the thugs at a distance, staying just beyond their reach with seemingly no effort. All the while, she kept spinning her rope. The heavy, pointed weight tied to its end gleamed menacingly in the light.

“I know!” Sjan-dehk shouted back. “Where’d you last see her?”

“The back!” Iyen replied. “Go after her! I can handle this on my own!”

Then, as if to prove her point, Iyen burst into action.

She first sent the rope’s weight crashing into a thug’s head, then withdrew it in the same motion, swinging it low to trip someone else. Even in the tavern’s lamplight, the crystalline shards embedded into the length of rope shimmered, and Sjan-dehk knew they were each as sharp as a shark’s tooth. It shredded clothes, it bit into leather, and against uncovered limbs, they could rip and tear to the bone. One thug found out the hard way—Iyen caught his bare leg with her rope, and almost severed it below the knee.

Another man, lucky enough to avoid the worst of her strikes, had his forearm skinned. He fell into a crying heap, cradling his blood-soaked limb. Iyen launched the spiked weight into his head with a kick, and he fell silent for good. A pistol cracked, but she moved too quickly, too erratically to be struck.

“Go!” Iyen shouted to Sjan-dehk.

“Stay safe,” Sjan-dehk replied, and took the chance to break away from the fight. He raced towards where he assumed the ‘back’ was—the wall with a door leading to what he assumed would be the kitchen. A few thugs tried to stop him, tried to chase after him, but he cut them down easily. One man swung a truncheon at him, and Sjan-dehk slashed his throat with such force that the head almost came clean off.

“I’ve no time for this!” he roared, and doubled his pace. Another sword came swinging at his head, and he ducked out of the way. The blade bit into the wooden pillar behind him, and refused to budge. As he stood back up, he caught the owner by the back of their head, and slammed it into the blade. The man’s scream died abruptly as cold steel cut into his face.

The next man that tried to get in Sjan-dehk’s way, he shot, stabbed, and kicked into a table.

Gunshots rang out from behind the door as he reached it. Then, it burst open, a bloodied corpse falling out and crashing to the floor. A familiar sight stepped out after it—blue uniform, conical helmet, and a smoking double-barreled shotgun in hand. “Captain,” the man greeted. “We’ve just cleared the back rooms—”

“Did you see a woman?” Sjan-dehk asked immediately. “Red hair, green eyes, she came to Sada Kurau a few times.”

The soldier looked confused, and shook his head. “No, Captain. We saw a woman, but not…Her hair’s like ours, and I didn’t notice her eyes, but I’m pretty sure they’re not green.”

Sjan-dehk swore beneath his breath. He peered through the door, around the soldier. There wasn’t much he could see in the low light, but he made out at least a half-dozen bodies, laying where they’d fallen, and blood pooling around them. He knew his crew—if they said they’d cleared the kitchens, then they would’ve certainly checked every room and every corner. And if Kalliope wasn’t there…

“Captain?” the soldier asked.

Sjan-dehk shook his head.

One problem at a time.

“Well done, Sahd-yen,” Sjan-dehk replied. “Give sergeant Dahsahn my regards.”

Sahd-yen grinned. “Thank you, Captain. But your orders?”

Sjan-dehk grimaced. “Get the arcanists back to Sada Kurau as quickly as possible,” he said. “Tell sergeant Dahsahn that I want every Viserjantan out of here as soon as possible. Leave Yehn-tai and Iyen to me. I’ll bring them along.”

He peered into the darkness again. Kalliope had to be in there. That, or she had to have left through some hidden exit that Dahsahn and his men had missed. There couldn’t be any other possibility. And if such an exit existed, he would find it.

“I’ve some investigating to do,” Sjan-dehk said. “Tell Dahsahn that he, and your section, can return first.”

He would find it. He would find Kalliope.

And if that meant killing fifteen more, or fifty more, then so be it.

---

The empty streets of Sorian greeted Kira. Drunkard’s Day was coming to a close, and there were only a few people still lingering outside. She didn’t have a specific goal in mind–watching the chaos was enough for her, and tonight had delivered. While she was not part of the tavern event, she had watched the people spill outside of it like ants. The people’s terror and confusion had been satisfying enough. The nobles who had ended the event had performed admirably. She noted it in the back of her mind. She began heading toward Marek’s mansion.

As the wind pushed her hood off her face and revealed her long ponytail, she heard a grumbling voice behind her. After growing up hearing random voices in the dark and having to defend herself, she figured it wasn’t just drunks. She had felt them–their eyes upon her, her movements being watched, and the shift in the night air. Her skin tingled at the sense of it. Being hunted for 28 years had taught her how to read a room before it even happened.

Hunters. She sighed and braced herself. It would be stress relieving to take them out. She would have to tell Wren–they were in Sorian, too. There was nowhere on earth they could hide but Marek’s.

”Ms. Mepanezi is it?” The voice inquired, still grumbly but filled with anticipation and excitement.

From her peripheral vision, she noticed several other figures step out of the shadows. Why didn’t these idiots just shoot her? She appreciated how many they had brought–tearing their hearts out one by one would be delicious.

”What’s it to you, fuckface?” She remained poised and flexed her muscles to loosen them up.

”We’ve been looking for you all over the damned place. Your family’s harder to track.”

”Ah, well. I like to move around and keep fuckers like you guessing.” Her voice came out dry as she took several deep breaths.

”Your head will fetch a pretty price, Mapenzi.” Another voice spoke and this time, it was female, coming from her right.

Kira remained still and waited for them to strike. ”With these locks, I’d hope so.” Kira taunted them and rolled her neck.

Kira heard the arrow knock and ducked out of the way as it sailed over her head. She unsheathed her sword and rolled onto her side and up to stab the archer through the abdomen. More arrows whistled passed her along with a gunshot she ducked from. Kira inhaled—they were more armed than usual–and elaborate. Marek would need to know. She ducked out of the way and used the archer’s body as a shield. The man’s screams were jumbled and unintelligible speech. She pulled her dagger out and slashed his throat, then thrust him at the nearest attacker, who yelled out and fell onto the ground with disgust and struggled to throw them off of the. Blood spilled all over the dying man and the attacker. Kira hopped out of the way of another bullet.

A man grabbed her hair and attempted to force something over her face but Kira kicked him hard in the knee and heard an audible pop. He cried out and released her, falling to his knees. She whirled around and stabbed him through the throat with her dagger next and watched his blood come pouring out like a damn that had broken. She whirled around to face the attacker she’d initially spoken to and a few of them steadily holding bows or guns, but warily now. She turned and saw the person she’d tossed the archer’s body at and grinned, sensing their fear and hesitation. They weren’t fast enough but she was.

She kicked the archer’s body off of them and grabbed the person by their head and pulled them forcefully. She then maintained eye contact and ripped his throat out with her sharpened teeth. The person screamed in agony and horror as blood rushed out, garbling their screams. As blood spilled all over her, she tossed them aside like flour. Kira grinned at them and dropped them at her feet. A pool of red formed at her feet that she relished.

”What’s wrong? You don’t want to play anymore?” She smiled maliciously and stepped toward them, taking care to step on the person’s diaphragm and cause more agony and pain. Their gasps of breath were music to her ears. ”Let this be a lesson to you dipshits. Kira Mapenzi isn’t coming with you, or anyone. The next batch of hunters you send to me will receive worse.” She showed him her bloody dagger and grinned at the leader who’d been threatening her initially. For added effect, she licked the blood off the blade, causing them to pale and stare with disgust. ”You want more?”

He glared furiously at her but was pale from the horrors he had witnessed. He went to speak, but looked too terrified.

”Run along with your tail between your legs, bitch; or I’ll rip your throat out next.” She snarled and made a step toward him.

The man and the remaining crew did just that and hightailed it out of there faster than the bullets they tried sedating her with. Kira sighed and wiped the blood off her face and looked down at her outfit. Blood was splattered all over it and onto her. She sighed in annoyance.

”This was one of my favorites,” she muttered and kicked a rock angrily. Kira’s heart raced and a cold sweat formed over her. How many Hunters were here and how soon would they return? She sighed and began pulling the dead bodies toward the nearby ocean to hide them. Although some of them were still alive, Kira still submerged them into the ocean and ignored their screams of protest and pain. She had dipped into the water to wash the blood off of her and have a moment of peace after the attack.

Once they were all gone and floating off into the horizon, and she was cleansed, Kira began heading back to the mansion, using the shadows to avoid crowns guard and people alike.

Time: Evening
Location: Tough Tavern
Attire: Outfit, Amulet
Interaction: @CitrusArms Stratya @Apex Sunburn Sjandehk, your fellas outside @Potter Olivia @Samreaper Kazumin
Mentions: @Tae Kalliope @ReusableSword

---

Charlotte stumbled outside just as boots thundered past her. “Wait—”

The word came out soft, swallowed by the rush of bodies. She swayed a little as her head pulsed with an insistent throb. But she forced herself upright anyway and caught the first face she could. “Did you see a woman—red hair, green eyes—being pulled through here?”

The man didn’t slow for more than a second. His gaze flicked over her. “No, my lady,” he said, already turning back toward the dark. “We cleared the back rooms. Come back inside with us—you’ll be safer.”

And then they were gone, sprinting through the kitchen door as if the floor was on fire. The door began to swing closed behind them. For one brief, awful instant, the inside of the back rooms flashed into view.

It was then that Lottie noticed the shapes on the floor—A half-dozen bodies lay where they’d fallen, blood in spreading pools along the planks. Charlotte’s breath snagged so sharply it hurt, and her eyes dilated. She stood there as if her feet had been nailed to the earth. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t even blink.

The door kept swinging until it finally closed. Then a whistle cut through the ringing in her ears.

Charlotte turned on instinct, and the sight of Stratya made relief hit her so hard her knees threatened to give. “ye’rr alrrigh’, Lady Charrlo’e? ...oh, yerr head. Le’ me see..” Her left arm remained tucked close as she stepped closer to Charlotte, her right coming in to gently cup her head to hold her still while she looked at the injury. “... coulda been worrse, easy. We’ll still ‘ave tae ge’ ye some attention, tho’.”

The tenderness of her movements and words undid her before she could process them. Lottie’s eyes stung, and she tried to speak with composure, but her voice betrayed her with a tremor. “Captain…” And before she could overthink it, she stepped forward and threw her arms around Stratya, hugging her tight and burying her face into her shoulder.

“I am—” She swallowed, forcing the words out of her sore throat. “I am so relieved you’re alright... It’s been so dreadful. ”

Her fingers tightened at the back of Stratya’s dress as she tried to remember how to breathe properly. After a long moment, she drew back, still trembling, and immediately looked mortified with herself.“Please pardon me,” she managed, “I did not mean to forget myself— I simply…” She shook her head, then glanced toward the tavern door, and subsequently swallowed against the nausea rising in her throat.

“We must go back inside,” she said, voice soft but tinged with resolve. “They said we would be safer... And we need to make certain the others are well. We must get everyone out before this worsens.”

Her brows knitted as she took in their surroundings once more, as if she might suddenly see Kalliope somewhere. “I cannot understand how they saw nothing of Kalliope if they truly came this way,” she murmured, half to herself. “Unless... magic was involved.”

Then her gaze snapped to the door, focusing despite the lingering fog behind her eyes. “We will find her,” she told Stratya. “But first we must ensure no one else meets a terrible fate for want of our aid.”

She reached for the kitchen door and pushed it open, keeping her eyes lifted toward the ceiling. She refused to look at the bodies again. “Come, my dear,” she said to Stratya. “Let us go.”

As she stepped back inside, the tavern swallowed them again in a mixed aroma of heat, smoke, and a metallic stink. The lanternlight suddenly felt too bright against her eyes. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, then forced herself onward anyway.

Her gaze lowered, and she found herself meeting the gaze of Sjandehk. Her lips parted in surprise. Despite her condition, she registered the look in his eyes—knew exactly who he was looking for. Her expression crumbled as she informed him quietly, “ She wasn't outside."

And then she saw them.

Olivia was on her knees in a widening puddle of blood. Dark, oily tendrils clung to her hands. Nearby, what remained of Marius lay ruined and still. Kazumin was at her side, his arm around her.

“Olivia—”

Charlotte crossed the distance too quickly; her balance wavered, her left hand stinging as she caught herself on the edge of the bar. The pain shot up her wrist, but she did not stop. She dropped to her knees beside them, the impact sending another throb through her skull.

Gently, she closed Olivia's hands and held them until the tendrils slowly evaporated, receding until they were gone. Then, with trembling care, she lifted her hands and placed them as gently as she could—her left to Kazumin’s cheek, her right to Olivia’s—thumbs barely brushing skin. “Look at me... Are you two hurt?”

After an emotional moment between the three friends, she drew them into a warm embrace, then rose with determination. “Captain Durmand! Please go to Lord Ravenwood, and we will go to the Edwards."

Time: Evening Location: Castle Throne Room

---

Edin Danrose sat as though the throne had grown heavier overnight. The carved armrests ended in lions with bared teeth, gilded manes worn dull by generations of royal palms; they held his hands without comfort. Drunkard’s Day, and for the first time in living memory, the King of Caesonia had not dulled himself into ease.

No woman. No food. No indulgent grin.
Instead, there was only the clean, unflattering sobriety of consequence.

The great hall had been cleared as much as it ever could be. Even the musicians had been sent away.

Two guards stood flanking the throne. There was unease in their stance; paranoia even.

A runner arrived in a desperate hurry and bowed to his king despite his heavy breaths. “Your Majesty,” he managed between huffs, “trouble in the lower ward. Tough Tavern.”

Edin’s eyes narrowed.“Details, boy,” he demanded. “Tell me everything. What kind of trouble, and who is responsible?”

The runner swallowed. “Witnesses report violence, my king. They say the patrons include Lord Roman Ravenwood, Lord Drake Edwards, Lady Ariella Edwards, Lady Charlotte Vikena, and more present… The tavern was overtaken—we believe those named are hostages, your Majesty.” The nervous runner got as much out as he could before needing another gasp of air. The King’s glare demanded the rest, so he forced himself to continue. “Apparently it’s bandits or brigands, sire. At least one arcanist is confirmed, but there could be more."

Edin did not stand, though his eyes moved about as he pondered a course of action. “Seal the lane,” he ordered.“Two rings.”

The runner blinked, then nodded quickly.

“The first ring keeps the crowd back,” Edin continued, the words coming clean and certain now. “The second ring keeps anyone from fleeing. No one enters that cordon without my mark. No one leaves it without being searched—hands, sleeves, boots, satchels. Weapons seized. Masks removed. I want faces.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

Edin’s gaze flicked to one of the palace guards. “You. Make haste to the infirmary ward. Surgeons, bandages, cots, have them gather whatever they can. Tell them it is royal command and they must not delay.”

The guard bowed and went at once. Edin’s orders did not slow.

“Send the Royal Guard to reinforce the Watch,” he said. “I want them armed and torches bright. I want the streets to see discipline and steel, not panic. I want them to feel the Crown has arrived, that the night will not belong to criminals.”

Another guard shifted, already preparing to leave.

Edin leaned forward, just enough. “Someone shall bring me a status report every half hour,” he said. “Hostages. Casualties. Any noble injuries. Any sign of coordinated intent. If someone is using magic in my streets, I want to know who before the sun changes the color of the sky.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“I want the bastards in one piece.” Edin added, colder now, “They are taken alive if possible. Bound. Gagged. Hooded. Kept separate. I want answers, not corpses that cannot speak… Any arcanist involved is restrained first and questioned second. No bargains. No ‘misunderstandings.’”

The runner’s throat bobbed. “Understood, Majesty.”

The king snapped his fingers as more staff entered the room. He pointed at a woman at random. “Send word to the Primitus clergy,” Edin said. He looked to another. “Send riders. Find our lead hunters Kilian and Trovee… Torvis… Whatever the hells the woman’s name is. Tell them there is sorcery in the lower ward. I want them there to ensure this savagery is handled.”

The guard bowed and moved.

Edin settled back into the throne, expression composed, as if this were already finished and all that remained was to decide how the city would remember it.

Then he spoke again to the runner for the last time, quiet and absolute.

“Tell them this,” Edin said. “Caesonia does not belong to bandits. It does not belong to witches. It belongs to me.” The king spat the words with every ounce of vile venom he possessed. His orders were given, pieces already in motion, and his will would be done. The expression left on his face was not that of the indulgent and gratuitous man he had come to be known, it was the look of a sleeping beast awoken. This was the scowl of a man backed into a corner, carrying the legacy of the Danrose bloodline on his back. A man who would crush anyone and anything to keep his throne. This was Caesonia’s king unchained, undistracted, and out for the blood of his enemies.

---

---

Roman let his head thud back against the wall, a ragged breath rattling in his chest. He watched the lethal efficiency of the captain, his own body feeling heavy and useless in comparison. When Sjan-dehk’s gaze swept near him, Roman didn’t try to rise. He just locked eyes with him and gave him a simple nod.

Everything seemed to crest and slow down simultaneously. It gave him quite a bit of insight, not just into the others, but into how these Sailors fought. It wasn’t just practice he was seeing; it was experience, from both the captain and his men. How they fought was methodical, smooth in every motion. Very insightful indeed.

It wasn’t long before the actual guards arrived. Personal guards, but guards nonetheless. Led by one man: Duke Gideon Edwards. He locked eyes with him and again nodded. Roman had never personally sat down and talked with the man, but that might be something to change after this trial business was over. He needed to see where the man stood.

His attention was suddenly pulled to his side by the small glass vial a young woman pressed into his hand, the red liquid catching the dim tavern light. He didn't have the breath to thank her, just the strength to offer a comforting smile. He wasn’t in a place to argue, so he drank the contents. It wasn’t wine, but it smelled very similar to potions he had drunk before.

He felt Gideon’s gaze on him and heard his words loud and clear. He didn’t have to be told twice. Soon, this place would be a trap once again.

The warmth in his belly grew. The girl had quickly snuck away after giving it to him. The uncomfortable sensation of ribs pulling themselves back into place was not something one could ever get used to. At least his instincts rang true; the drink was indeed a healing potion.

Almost instantly, the sharpest edges of his pain began to dull. It wasn't a miracle—his ribs still screamed when he inhaled, and his head still swam with the aftershocks of the concussion—but the crushing weight that had pinned him to the wall lifted just enough. The potion knit the worst of the internal damage together, buying him time.

He gritted his teeth, planting his palms against the rough plaster behind him. With a groan that was lost in the shuffling of the evacuating crowd, Roman forced his legs to work. He slid up the wall, his boots finding purchase on the slick floor, until he was standing. The world tilted violently to the left, then righted itself. He braced a hand against a wooden pillar to steady himself, blinking away the black spots dancing in his vision.

He made sure to lock eyes with Stratya, shaking his head slightly so she wouldn’t try to help him. Slowly, after gaining his footing, Roman pushed himself out the door and into the alley beyond. His strength was returning to him with every step, and he soon found himself supported by three of his men—the three that were meant to be with him.

“You took your time,” Roman grimaced as they continued to push forward down the alleyways, twisting and turning to escape the security perimeter that was sure to be erected.

“We are aware, sir. Next time we won't all step out of the bar at the same time.” It was spoken quietly as a jest, but it was a reminder of how quickly things could change in this city.

Rounding a corner, they came face to face with two city guards moving to block off the alley. It looked like they were going to speak, but Roman's men moved faster. They tackled and choked out the two guards with speed and efficiency. Rendering them unconscious, his men dragged the guards into the shadows of the alley before catching up.

Once they were clear of the excitement, Roman was finally able to stop and take a break. He began to plan his next steps.

“Alright. I need a cloak, and I need to check on something. You three go back to the shop. Grab a case of mead, my monocle, and the music box. Change, and bring a couple extra guys. I'll meet you out in front of the Vikena Estate soon.”

The men nodded and did what they were told. It was, of course, all code. They didn’t refer to ale as a "case," always a "bottle." Using "case" meant potions, and "mead" meant healing. He didn’t reference a party, which meant the situation wasn’t dire, but supplies were still needed. The other two items were enchanted and had their own specific functions. The last instruction told them to mobilize a few more men and switch to civilian clothes. Charlottes home was a good place to regroup and close enough that's likely where they will end up.

All in all, that should keep them busy enough for him to go check on someone. That much was true. He just didn’t mention that the person wasn’t expecting him, and he would have to use his renewed strength to climb up to a balcony at the Damien estate. The events of tonight were a reminder that he might not get the chance to apologize again.

“CROWN GUARD!”

The man’s shout, firm and commanding, echoed through the tavern, easily carrying through the thick walls separating the main floor from the kitchen.

Sjan-dehk frowned, his brows knitting together. He’d expected the authorities to make an appearance, but he would’ve preferred it if they’d arrived just a little later. There was still plenty he wanted to investigate, to examine in detail—the mess of broken utensils and crockery on the floor, the splintered furniture, even the bullet-ridden counters. Any of those might give him a clue as to where Kalliope had been taken.

More barked orders—muffled, vague, but still close—reached his ears. It wouldn’t be long before someone decided to check the kitchen. He had to move, and fast.

A disgruntled growl rose in his throat, but Sjan-dehk forced it back down. He hated the idea of delaying the search for Kalliope, but it couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t stay, not when the guards weren’t likely to be in a negotiating mood. They would’ve almost certainly heard of all the magics used, and given Caesonia’s dim view towards the arcane, Sjan-dehk had little doubt that they’d be questioning everyone about it.

And the last thing he needed was to be detained for Mother knows how long. He didn’t mind it, personally, but his gut told him that Kalliope didn’t have that sort of time.

Fortunately, Dahsahn and Iyen had led the Viserjantan arcanists away, and back to their ships, just before the guards arrived. That was a handful fewer people for Sjan-dehk to worry about. Moving with speed, but still in silence, he moved towards the door Dahsahn and his section had come through earlier. He stepped carefully over mangled bodies—some missing limbs, others with heads blown clean off—and followed the sticky trail of drying blood through the dim light.

A small bundle of herbs, hanging from the ceiling, rustled as his helmet brushed against it. Sjan-dehk felt a pit open in his stomach. His breath caught. For what felt like an eternity, he didn’t move. But then, the loud voices from the tavern drew no closer, and he relaxed ever-so-slightly. He continued moving.

Soon, his boots stepped from springy floodboards to solid cobblestones. He looked over his shoulder, and only once he was sure he hadn’t been followed, he quickened his pace, first to a brisk walk, then to almost a job. Blood spattered over his armour, and stained even the hilts of his swords. The longer he lingered in the evening crowd, the greater the chances of someone noticing his less-than-innocent appearance. A few passers-by cast curious looks at him, but thankfully did nothing more.

Sada Kurau’s berth wasn’t far from the tavern, but still he ran across the gangplank as if he’d just suffered an arduous journey just to return to her. Her main deck was abuzz with activity—the arcanists were sitting by her mainmast, with Dai-sehk examining them with his physicians tools, while Dahsahn and Iyen rested closer to the gunwale, deep in conversation with the rest of Sada Kurau’s officers.

“Captain!” Azwan’s voice drew Sjan-dehk’s attention.

Sjan-dehk turned, and saw his first officer jogging over to him. “Azwan, how’re things?”

Azwan snapped to a crisp salute before replying. “Fine, Captain. We just heard about what happened. Are you—”

“I’m fine,” Sjan-dehk cut in. He glanced at the arcanists. Yasawen was slumped against the mast, Inshahri fussing over him with a flask of water in one hand, and a fan in the other. Tehwasang sat beside Hasehnya as Dai-sehk tied an eyepatch over the latter’s wounded eye. Each of them had done plenty—some paying a high price, even—to save the tavern’s patrons.

In a city that would happily see them burnt, no less.

“How soon can we sail?” Sjan-dehk asked.

Confusion flashed across Azwan’s face, but he nevertheless answered. “As soon as you want, Captain. Is there—”

“The city’s not safe,” Sjan-dehk replied quickly. He tilted his chin towards the arcanists. “Not for them. We’ll sail for open waters and think of our next move from there.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Azwan saluted again.

Before he could move, however, Sjan-dehk continued. “And signal Sudah. Tell them to follow us.”

“Signal Sudah to follow us out of harbour,” Azwan said with a nod. “Aye, Captain. Any specific message?”

“Just make sure they know it’s urgent,” Sjan-dehk said. “And that I’ll explain later.”

Not an hour later, Sada Kurau quietly slipped from its berth. Hidden by the chaos and confusion caused by the events at the tavern, she—along with Sudah—sailed out from Sorian harbour.

And following in their wake, was the Recompense—

No, not the Recompense. But the Remembrance.

Gale McLeary was supposed to meet with the Captain that evening, to discuss recent developments and how they were to proceed. When he got to the tavern, however, the windows had been unnaturally dark, and a band of foreigners had been at the door, bothering some blokes that had been posted to guard the place and turn people away. And then the magic started. Magic meant the captain might respond with magic, which would mean they’d need to get her out of there quickly. He needed to get backup.

At the Knight’s Barracks, Lieutenant James Clearwell sat at his desk outside Stratya’s office, doing a bit of evening paperwork over a glass of mead. He wasn’t one for overindulgent days like Drunkard’s Day, but he wasn’t so far gone that he would ignore the holiday. He did enjoy a drink or two now and then.

Gale’s visit was a surprise, and a break of the protocol they’d laid out. This had better be important. The man leaned in and told him quietly, “magic. Brring a carriage, captain wants tae inspect t’ blossoms.” Just as the wind, Gale was gone again.

He’d said it so briefly, Clearwell had almost missed it. It had been very important.

Captain Stratya Durmand

Time: 2nd Ignis, Evening
Location: Tough Tavern
Attire: Fine Dress
Boar Mantle of Spring Hunting - head’s at home, the bulky thing
A Dirk - strapped in, strapped down
Swordbreaker - strapped in, strapped down
Interactions:
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Aah, there it was. What Stratya could only expect was Charlotte’s first real exposure to live combat had taken quite the toll. It had been a brutal one, as well; the head being kicked around was a particularly haunting sight, even for her. Stratya’s left slid out and both arms wrapped around the shaken young lady. The honest compassion Charlotte expressed was a refreshing change from their spoiled night, but also from witch hunters and murders and plots. “You flat’err me wit’ yerr concerrn, Lady Charrlo’e.”

Slowly, she scanned their surroundings for someone. Not here yet.

A sigh, letting a bit of the tension off while her fingers flexed, patting Charlotte’s head lightly, “if I’d ken figh’in’ tae be on t’ menu, I migh’a brrough’ a frriend ah two.”

As Charlotte pulled herself back together, Stratya shook her head, “it’s naturral that y’d be shaken. It’s my job tae keep this kinda thing frrom ‘appenin’, I should be apologizin’ tae you.” However, like any good ruler-to-be, Charlotte pulled herself together and got back to action.

Back inside? No, everyone should be moved to a safe area outside, what..? Hmn.

Charlotte was right, however. She had to be sure everyone was safe and the fight inside was over, and to that end, she couldn’t let Charlotte go back in alone. Her training was getting a little rusty, she’d let the Fury fixate her on something. Or, perhaps she’d run herself harder than she realized, and her control slipped. Had it been her spellcasting? She looked over her shoulder once more.

He still wasn’t here.

Whatever the case, with unknown kidnappers about, it would be best to-

.. it would be safer to go inside. But here? The people here should be moved anywhere else, not kept with the smells and the sights and the horrors.

Charlotte seemed to understand that, in one breath expressing the need to go back inside for safety and the need to escape this place for safety. While admiring the resolve of the young lady that had only just been falling apart in her arms, Stratya heard her wonder to herself how the guards had seen nothing and the familiarity with which she used the word “magic”. It was turning up in so many places, and yet there was so little control or regulation. It was a toy anyone who looked in the wrong place could find without knowing a thing about it. Hmn.

She murmured to Lady Vikena in a similarly soft tone, “I wonderr ‘oo’s guarrds those werre?” Perhaps they’d been told to see nothing. There was no time to debate it, they both knew that.

”Let us go.”

“Yes.”

She hovered at Charlotte’s side, her right hand on her dirk, ready for the chaos of a battlefield to find her in the middle of what should be a safe city. It felt so wrong. The Duchess-to-be addressed Sjan-dehk and Stratya connected a few dots with something Kalliope had said in her ear before. Was this man what she had meant by that? The.. foreign captain she kept seeing places. Well, two places. Here and the castle.

“I was nae quick enough, I’m sorry. We will find herr.” It was all she could offer right now.

Charlotte moved, and Stratya was her shadow. Then, she stood over the remains of Marius and the trio of traumatized nobles. Her eyes drifted over to the man the first mage had killed nearby, folded for trying to flee. She reached into her satchel and drew out a couple copper - she always carried a few - and knelt by the man, closing his eyes and laying a coin over either. “Wonderr if he ‘ad a family..?”

There was no time to think about it. Just as Charlotte called to her and bade her help Roman, The Edwards Guard and Duke Giddeon himself arrived. Had so much time passed? That wasn’t good, but at least it was Giddeon and not… … … literaly anyone else.

Oof! The way he said you at her felt like she’d disappointed her own father. He was just trying to conceal her identity. Surely.

She didn’t need to be told twice, however. It was time to go. Having been bade to aid Roman, she sought his eyes, but when she found them, he told her no. There was no time to argue; as Giddeon confirmed for her, the Crown Guard was coming.

“Lord Kazumin, I will need ye tae carry Lady Olivia. Lady Charlotte, we must go.” She took Charlotte gently by her shoulder and began to guide her out through the back, stopping only long enough to ensure that Kazumin and Olivia were not far behind her. If Giddeon had shown up already, the Crown Guard would not be far behind. Without Queen Alibeth to shield her, the Queen’s Knight would find it hard to escape this bind. She had to be sure she did not get caught in it, and it wouldn’t do to leave these three to it, either.

Out through the kitchen she would lead. First, they had to escape the closing snare. Then, they could go home. Before they made it very far, a voice sounded, “ser.”

Stratya recognized the voice and turned her head, slowing only enough to let Charlotte lean on her, “we need tae leave.”

The man that had addressed her was already moving, having read the situation. Guards everywhere, captain wounded with the kind of fatigue he’d seen on her before. “This way,” Gale would lead them north, around the library. He carefully matched their speed with a nonchalant gait as they rounded to the east. Once they were in the alley, he motioned them on and made sure they weren’t being followed, “turn south at the end.” They wouldn’t need the direction, as Gale hurried back to the front of their formation after finding nothing to lead the way again, taking them south along the edge of the Damien property.

As they came to the end of the alley, where it opened out before running into Cherry Ln, he motioned them to wait and went ahead to spot the carriage and flag Clearwater down.

Neirynn circled the Remembrance’s mainmast with slow, lazy flaps of her wings.

The harrier drifted on a calm, offshore breeze, dripping low—almost to the topsail’s yard—before climbing again with an updraft. Her feathers flashed silver and white in the pale moonlight, her hooked beak glinting like a honed blade. Far below, the ship rocked as she slipped through the harbour’s dark waters, her sails rustling and rigging creaking.

Cynwaer sat on a crate by the gunwale, his coat crumpled in a heap by his feet, and the right sleeve of his shirt rolled up to his shoulder. Crouched beside him, a woman tended to a bleeding gnash on his forearm, a needle pinched between her thumb and index finger. She had her dark hair pulled back into a loose bun, and her eyes, keen and icy blue, peered over the top of a pair of round-framed spectacles. Squeezing her lips into a thin line, she lightly prodded the needle into Cynwaer’s raw flesh.

An involuntary yelp leapt from his lips, and he pulled his arm away. “Feckin’ careful!” he snapped. “Dae ye think ye’re stitchin’ a feckin’ dress?”

The woman sighed and looked at him. With refined, elegant features, and a gaze that could turn fire to ice, she could’ve easily passed for a noblewoman—or a member of Caesonian high society, at least. “I mean, I could stitch a dress,” she said drily. “But I don’t think you’ll look good in it, Captain.”

Cynwaer scowled, but offered his arm to her all the same. She prodded his wound again, this time a touch more gently.

“Yes, Matilda is right.”

Both the captain and surgeon of Remembrance turned their heads. Approaching them from the stern was a woman. Unlike Matilda, she had a plainer appearance—the sort that wouldn’t look out-of-place in a quiet village or hamlet far from any major city. Her strawberry blonde hair, streaked with black, was tied into two tails that draped over her shoulders. She twirled the ends of one of them around a finger.

“You would look terrible in a dress.” There weren’t any hints of mirth in her voice. Anyone else who’d heard her might be forgiven for thinking that she was being dead serious.

Thankfully, Cynwaer—and Matilda, for that matter—knew better.

The surgeon chuckled under her breath as she tightened a stitch. Cynwaer drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. “See?” Matilda said. “Even Adaleida agrees.”

Cynwaer ignored her. He gestured to the barrel across from him. “‘Ave a seat, Ada. D’ye need somethin’?”

Adaleida gave him a nod of thanks, and sat on the barrel. For more than a few moments, she fidgeted and shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Then, she stood back up. “I’ll stand,” she said simply, and as if nothing had happened, continued with, “You’re following Sya–Shan–Jan–”

She cleared her throat. “You’re following the foreign captain.”

It came out as a statement of fact—which it was—but Cynwaer knew better. She’d meant it as a question.

“Aye,” he replied. “Pret’y sure that was clear when I said, ‘follow that ship’, aye?”

Adaleida nodded, as if taking in some profound knowledge. Then, she cocked her head. “Why?”

“Good question,” Matilda interjected. She pulled another stitch tight. “Might we have an answer, Captain?”

Cynwaer shrugged. “‘E’s a man worth befriendin’,” he replied. “I saw ‘im cut down fifteen feckin’ men wi’ou’ breakin’ a feckin’ sweat, aye I did, an’ anyone wi’ that sort o’ skill’s worth keepin’ on our side. An’ e’en if we cannae ‘ave ‘im wi’ us, I sure as feck dae’n wan’ ‘im gae’n o’er tae Caesonia.”

“Is that possible?” Adaleida asked. “It doesn’t seem like Caesonian laws would suit him, Captain.”

She had a point there, Cynwaer had to admit. Sjan-dehk had shown nothing but aversion towards the very notion of witchhunts and witchhunters. The man didn’t even like the word ‘witch’. And the care he’d shown towards one of his arcanists—the one who’d dispelled the magic plaguing the tavern—had been much too real, much too genuine for it to have come from someone who merely tolerated the existence of magic.

Cynwaer couldn’t help but wonder about the lands Sjan-dehk and his people hailed from. Wherever it was, it clearly had no problems with magic, and those who used them.

Perhaps, had Cynwaer and his family lived there, instead of Caesonia, she would—

Up above, Neirynn let out a shrill cry.

Cynwaer shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to daydream. Although thankfully, while he’d been lost in his own thoughts, Matilda had finished stitching the wound closed. Cynwaer looked at it, flexing his arm a few times to make sure the thread held. “Cheers, Matty,” he said.

“Try not to get yourself cut up next time, Captain,” the surgeon replied.

“I told ye befer,” Cynwaer said. “‘Tis was nae but an accident.”

“Sure, they’re always accidents.” Matilda’s voice was dry, but he recognised the look of care hidden under her sharp gaze. “Skilled as I may be, I cannot cure death.”

“Dae’n sell yersel’ short, Matty,” Cynwaer replied with a chuckle.

Then, he turned to Adaleida. “In any case, ye righ’ about ‘im nae likin’ Caesonia, but ‘tis nae somethin’ I’m ‘appy about leavin’ tae lady luck, aye I’m nae. An’ besides, if we wan’tae work wi’ ‘im and ‘is lot next time, I reckon we should come clean, aye?”

“You mean to tell him everything.” Once again, Adaleida spoke a statement, but meant a question.

“Aye,” Cynwaer replied simply.

“Even if he does not like Caesonia, it doesn’t mean he’ll like us,” Adaleida said, her voice unchanging and devoid of emotion. “Or what we do.”

“It’s a risk.”

“A risk you’re taking with a man who, as you said, ‘cut down fifteen feckin’ men’.”

“Aye, a big risk. But we could find oursel’s a good pal. Or at least keep a nasty enemy away frae the likes o’ Caesonia.”

The ghost of a smile suddenly curled Adaleida’s lips. “Great risks for great rewards,” she said, once again sounding as if she’d just been enlightened by sagely wisdom. “That’s just like sailing the unknown. I like it, Captain, and I…”

She trailed off, a hint of red colouring her cheeks. She looked at her feet, and wrung her hands. “I…Um, I, I apologise for ah…Questioning you, Captain.”

Cywaer stood up with a laugh. He snatched his coat from the deck and threw it on. “Nae worries, Ada,” he said, giving the quartermaster a pat on the shoulder as he passed her. “You’ve been wi’ us fer far tae long fer us tae worry about these wee things.”

Overhead, Neirynn screeched again. She dove, and snatched a passing bird with her claws. Cynwaer and the two women watched the harrier as she landed on the gunwale, her latest meal in tow.

“Anyway,” Cynwaer said. “Let’s ‘er sailin’, an’ be ready wi’ ta’ signals. Our friends o’er there will likely see us soon, an’ I dae’n wan’ us shot tae feckin’ pieces we can e’en talk.”

@Remram

The sun sat yet early in the sky, morning birds still calling as the scent of freshly baked bread wafted out from a portion of the training grounds. Many of the guards, soldiers, and enthusiasts gathered there were at some stage of enjoying various baked goods to be found in a very large breadbasket, set aside near some equipment racks. A tartan cloth covered it, to be lifted at the corner and replaced when retrieving morsels, protecting the contents from getting dirty.

The woman responsible for the basket, Captain Stratya Durmand, and her lieutenant wore training raiment of cloth padding and hard leather plates, and each held a wooden parrying dagger in the left hand, with nothing in the right. The lieutenant, a right-handed man, was struggling to keep up with his commanding officer, while she seemed perfectly comfortable.

After another very controlled smack to his hand, the lieutenant let out a frustrated groan, “let me use my main hand.”

The captain sighed, straightening up out of her stance, “Do ye intend tae wield yerr shorr’sword in yerr left, then?”

No, he didn't. James Clearwater glanced at the hand holding the parrying dagger, seeing her point. He knew he was supposed to be training his left, but it was frustrating and difficult when the captain seemed naturally inclined to her left hand.

“Reyt, so we’ll keep on like this. Aah, but, perr’aps we’ll take a lit’le brreak, first. A cinnamon rroll sounds keen.” And perhaps she could let him take a break from such focused training. He was doing well, actually. She was ambidextrous, which gave James a rather high bar to try to overcome. She didn’t expect him to beat her with his offhand, only to get better.

A knight should never miss a day of training. If he didn't train one day, no one would notice. If he didn't train for a week, only he would notice. If he didn't train for a month then everyone would notice. That was why Askel found himself on the training grounds in Sorian, to keep his skills sharp and honed as the blade he wore by his side. The clothes he wore were loose and plain though someone with a discerning eye would be able to tell that they were of exceptional make.

His violet eyes scanned the compound and... why could he smell baked goods? Was there a bakery nearby that he was unaware of? No matter, he had more important things to worry about. He asked a passing Caesonian soldier who'd he would need to speak to in order to get permission to use these grounds. Askel was pointed in the direction of one Captain Durmand. It was a surprise to see a female knight, though a welcomed one.

"Captain Durmand?" He asked to confirm as he approached her. "My apologies for intruding, I am Askel Camilia, knight of Varian and prince. If it is not a bother, would you allow me to train on these grounds? I will do my utmost best to not interfere with neither the training of your knights nor your own."

The woman in question turned at her name, an upbeat “mm?” escaping her throat before she received an introduction. A royal introduction. Something about him seemed less strict than Prince Wulfric, at least.

What a time to be caught with a bite of cinnamon roll in her mouth - the remainder of the morsel was in her gloved hand. That large basket nearby was shaped to rest on the hip as it was carried on the arm, and large enough to warrant it. Captain Durmand gave a few hurried, final chews and submitted the carbs to her stomach before she spoke, “g’morrnin’, Prrince Askel. Yes, please, our grrounds arre open tae guests. Cerr’ainly, one such as Yerr ‘ighness, aye?” She smiled warmly, and stepped to the side to allow the royal a direct path to the training gear. Most of the wooden training weapons had metal cores for weight and durability. Captain Durmand continued, “though they arre day-old, Yerr ‘ighness is welcome tae m’ baske’ o’ baked goods. Nowt good, trrainin’ an’ fightin’ wit’ an empty belly.”

A moment passed, and an idea came to her. Stratya glanced at James with a mischievous grin, “If yerr in’errested, ‘ighness,” she gave a slight pause, to let Askel bring his attention back to her, “if yerr keen ferr a sparrin’ parr’ner, I believe my lieutena’ tirres o’ clashin’ off’ands wit’ me.”

James, who had been watching an ongoing sparring match as he munched on a simple breadroll with a bit of cheese, looked over suddenly. He seemed a bit like a prairie dog that wanted to disappear down a hole it didn’t have.

Ah, yes, there was also cheese in the basket.

Well, at least he knew where the smell of baked goods wafted from. What he wasn't expecting was for the captain of these knights to have a mouthful of sweet, buttery baked goods lodged into her mouth. Apparently, he caught her at a bad time. Askel patiently remained silent as she hurriedly packed away the cinnamon roll. After a brief greeting and confirmation, he was offered to partake from the basket of baked goods. "Ah, I appreciate it, but I already-" His stomach rumbled loudly, eliciting a slight blush from his already rosy cheeks and an embarrassed chuckle. "On second thought, how am I supposed to refuse the gracious hospitality of a fellow knight?"

Askel glanced down at the basket and picked up a croissant and sliced a small slab of cheese. As he prepared his morning treat, his attention was brought back to the attention of the knight captain. A playful grin stretched along his face. "Ah, a cultural exchange between blades? Color me intrigued." He glanced back at the wooden weapons and then back at Durmand."Well, wood. The last time I sparred with wooden weapons was when I was a child. In Varian, those who seek further advancement as soldiers train with steel on steel, so it's rather strange to see from my perspective. Not bad, just different."

He bit a hunk out of his quick fix breakfast and nodded with approval. "My compliments to the baker. I must admit, Caesonian pastry is quite a delicacy."

Stratya smiled softly as the fellow knight and neighboring prince stepped forward and prepared for himself a morsel to hold him until breakfast. A little giggle, warm and kindhearted, escaped her throat. A prince, hungry enough that his body complains about it? This was a prince much more like Auguste than Wulfric or Callum.

Askel’s comment caught her ear. Aah, the wood? “Aah, hahah, aye, an old ‘abit, tha’. These ones’rre a lit’le more serrious than t’ ones when I werre small, tho’. We're jes’ abou’ tae change ova, in fact. We star’ t’ day wit’ teachin’ th’ squirres a bi’. I’ve been rrappin’ poorr Clea’wa’errs knuckles all morrnin’. I’m sure ‘e’s thankful it was wit’ wood and nae steel. T’is available, an’ we’ll be gettin’ more ou’ as t’ sun climbs.” The wooden weapons in question were, also, certainly not children's toys or some such. Their make was far too fine, and hardwood had been used, whereas children would be playing with almost exclusively soft.

“If you would prefer, Your Highness, I would not be opposed to using proper blades,” James had found an opportunity between bites to offer, and Stratya gave her lieutenant a nod. If the Prince would prefer, he would retrieve.

When Askel took a bite and found himself delighted, it was Stratya’s turn to blush, just a little. She tried to contain a smile and, only so slightly, gave a bashful squirm, “ooh, weh, complimen’s rrecieved, yerr ‘ighness. Mos’ days, I bake somethin’ in th’ morrnin’. S’how my motherr taugh’ me.”

Askel could help, but to chuckle if a little awkwardly at the level of formality being offered to him. Perhaps it would have been better if he only introduced himself as a knight only? "We're all soldiers here. Please, call me Askel or Sir Camila if you must insist on formalities. Right now, I am here as a knight, not as the prince of a nation." He said with a warm smile that begged them to push aside the other aspect of his identity.

He gave Stratya a kind smile of approval. "Your mother taught you very well! If they're this good after a day, then I can only imagine how great they are fresh out of the oven." He nodded, a mental image of steam wafting off of freshly baked bread and other delights filled his mind. "A knight should have interests outside of their profession. Keeps the mind sharp." Askel said before he took another hunk out of his cheese sandwich in a way that was most unrefined for a prince.

He walked over to check out the wooden weapons and to his surprise the quality was definitely high. In fact, perhaps they were too finely crafted and that was saying something because he remembered the wooden weapons he used for practice for being rather sturdy though this was of another order.

When told by the lieutenant that he could use proper blades if he so wished, Askel shook his head. He called back, "No, that's okay. I would rather you not accommodate me more than what your kingdom has already granted me. I am grateful enough just to be able to share the grounds." Askel grabbed his training weapons of choice, a wooden long sword and an arming sword, after inspecting the balance of weight.

Askel gave Stratya a thankful slight bow of the head. "I thank you for the pick me up, Captain Durmand. I think I can begin warming up. Forgive me James, it will only take a few moments." He placed his practice weapons down for a moment and rolled up his loose sleeves past his elbows. What was revealed were too large, well-defined arms that looked like they were carved straight out of stone. They were the arms of a man that had dedicated a great deal of time to swordsmanship.

He picked up the practice longsword and gave a few practice swings, precise and strong as if they were performed hundreds upon hundreds of times. Then he took a deep breath and exhaled, and something visibly changed with him; the soft kindness in his eyes was replaced with cold and calculating focus. With an unexpected burst of speed, Askel began what could only be described as a dance, switching between various guards as he swung his weapon with immaculate footwork though they were not just random attacks, but perfectly optimized to not disarm, but to kill. It was plain to see that he was trained by someone exceptional, but what was obvious was not only his keen instincts, but experience that could only be sharpened through countless battles.

The air that the practice blade cut through sounded like it was screaming with the force of his strikes. One could only imagine the resounding sound a single strike would have made should it hit someone. However, he was not just on the offensive; there were parries, feints, and blocks thrown into the mix and anyone with experience would realize that he was fighting someone, an imaginary opponent in his mind. Whoever it was, they were skilled because if it were any other soldier then he would have killed them ten times over.

He eventually came to a standstill and exhaled before he turned to James with a big grin on his face and an excited light in his eyes that should not belong to the same person they just watched only moments ago. "Alright, I'm ready!"

He wished to dispose of the formalities? The baking knight was surprised - did he consider himself more knight than prince? She watched him put together his croissant, appreciating his choice of cheese, considering, “Askel, a fellow soldier, then, is i’?” It was a simple request, and one that would ask no difficulty in fulfilling it. The baking knight chuckled softly at his compliments with an easy grin, “ye’ll ge’ yerr chance if ye stick ‘rround.”

She took an appreciative breath, as though she smelled something fresh on the breeze. Indeed, having a wide variety of experiences growing up had allowed Stratya to find hobbies besides hunting, baking, and training. Those other hobbies had, in turn, made her a much more rounded person. “How rreyt you arre, Askel. Life is morre’n jus’ figh’in’. Y’ need cause, an’ balance. Keeps t’ mynd sharrp, an’ t’ spiri’ well.” As Askel took his weapons of choice, the captain found herself intrigued. A two-weapon fighter, as well? Not a shield, or a single sword, but two. It took a lot of practice and awareness to use two effectively. Askel must be skilled. Stratya glanced at her lieutenant. He didn’t seem to have picked up on the implications of Askel’s choice in weapons. Hm.

It wouldn’t take him long to see it, though. As Askel launched into an impressive display, she could almost feel the poor guy’s apprehension. Askel gave the title “Royal Knight” a good look.

In the back of her head, Stratya wondered how his knighting went. Did he need to be knighted? Or could he just declare it himself? He didn’t seem the type.

At any rate, Stratya walked herself over to the weapon rack and started picking out her own kit for a proper spar. By the time Askel had declared himself ready, Stratya put a hand on her lieutenant’s shoulder as she walked past him, “y’rr ‘and hurts, rreyt, Clea’wa’err? Y’shoul’ rrest i’.”

“Ahh, yes, it does, actually. I will.”

Captain Durmand bore a targe on her right arm, with a wooden dirk in her right hand. In her left she had seen Askel’s wooden longsword with a shortsword.

“Rreyt, then. He’ll ‘ave a bi’ o’ rrest, and I’ll sparr ye, instead.” In truth, such a capable opponent had Stratya a little excited. Even if she had a wooden swordbreaker, it was most effective against one-weapon opponents.

Askel kicked the practice pairing blade that he left on the ground and caught it. He tilted his head back to look at her and a grin crept along his face. "I'll be in your capable hands then, Captain Durmand." With the grace of a prince he turned and bowed politely to his opponent though he raised his head back up she could see that same bone chilling stare again from his dark violet eyes, leaving him completely unreadable. It was the kind of gaze that would have made wonder if this was his true nature and if not, what kind of life would a royal have to live to be able to adopt such coldness in battle.

Slowly, he shifted his stance, the pairing blade was held in his off hand and held lower down while the practice long sword was held above his head. It was a stance meant for a one-handed sword and a pairing blade, but he had the strength to manage it with a two-handed weapon such as a longsword with ease. However, even though he entered this stance, he did not strike first. Askel only watched Stratya for every bit of muscle movement, every breath, and everything thought.

Stratya took a moment to consider the sudden change in the Prince’s eyes. She’d noticed it before, but to be under his intense stare was another thing entirely. Hm. The knight studied the other as she circled slowly. She walked almost casually, if not for her obvious readiness. Her shield, she kept to him, the dirk poking out from underneath.

Her eyes, in contrast, seemed almost flirtatious. If you were daft, you might think so, but no. They were admiring his hard work, examining him for openings, and evaluating his threat.

Gradually, she circled closer, until the distance was right for her to leap forward, shield raised to her chest and concealing her shortsword behind it.

With a single step forward, it began, an explosion of violent energy dancing to the tune of a knightly waltz. The sounds of reinforced wood echoed throughout the training grounds as Askel and Stratya clashed, a demonstration of the skills and unrelenting instincts between two knights who have achieved a level of combat experience well above the average soldier. Try as each other might, neither could penetrate each other's defenses; every strike, every guard, every step, and every feint was as open to each other like words to the pages of an open book.

They would break from their clash and circle each other, their gazes never leaving each other as they searched to predict each other's next moves. Askel loomed like a bear, his form bearing brute force that betrayed the finesse he wielded, and yet his eyes were icy, piercing, and somehow unreadable. Stratya continued to look at him with that same admiration though with mirth to find such an opponent would simply appear to her one day.

And then Askel would step in, a feint and then downward strike. Stratya would parry with her shield, the force resounding all throughout the training ground, and return in kind, thus repeating their dance.

Other soldiers stopped to take notice of the fight between the knight captain and the Varian prince, their mouths agape. Murmured chatter was shared between men, some making bets on who would win with some more faithful to their dear knight captain while some were less loyal and betted on the unexpected prince-knight though the smart ones were the ones to not bet on either of them.

Eventually, the two would meet eyes over locked weapons and come to a silent agreement before pulling away, each quite exhausted, drenched and breathless. Neither had made a single nick on each other save for the poor treatment their practice weapons received from their heated practice.

The coldness in Askel's melted away and a hardy laugh barged through the air. "Oh you're good, really good! Ambrose would like you! Shame I couldn't convince him to swing around too!"

The Baking Knight tucked the shortsword she’d used under her arm and wiped some sweat from her brow. The grin she wore said it all, she’d had a great time, “yerrsen’s nae slouch, eitherr.” A slight, certain hesitance in her motion signaled the moment she recognized the name, “Ambrrose? Serr Ambrrose Thrrane? Aye, no small wonderr i’tis, then. Owt considerred, I s’ppose I augh’ tae ‘ave expected such.”

Stratya took the wooden shortsword from under her arm, tossed it into the air and flipped it around to catch it by the “blade”, before handing it off to someone that seemed to want it as she made her way back toward the equipment rack. “Ooh, I could go ferr a prroperr meal. Ey, Askel?” After such a fine spar, it seemed only right to take the Prince-Knight to one of the fine dining establishments that Sorian had to offer. Somewhere in her mind, Stratya wondered if Askel’s pallet would more reflect his nature as a soldier and knight than as a prince.

Askel was just handing the practice weapons off to have come to collect it from him when she had asked him out for food. He raised his brow in surprise though he knew it would have been rude to decline an invitation from someone so highly regarded. "Oh, sure. What do you feel like?" He asked so innocently and plainly. Clearly, his own palate was not high on his list of priorities right now. "I mean, I am a prince of Varian so I can get us in just about anywhere at short notice though I would just be as happy going to a tavern or a stand if that is what you wish. I know only some of the cheaper eats and the like when I was last in Sorian, so I would be in your very capable hands once again." He gave her a slight bow of appreciation.

His nose crinkled and he looked down at the sweat stains in the pit of his arms. "Though if you wish to go somewhere with a stricter dress code, then perhaps I could be allowed some time to make myself more... presentable. I think my title only can carry me so far before I offend the senses." The prince-knight grinned embarrassedly at her for being in such a state.

The captain decided that Askel probably ate more like a knight. She gave a warm chuckle, “ooh, I doan think tha’ll be necessarry. While ‘forreign prrince’ is hard tae bea’, you migh’ be surrprised ‘ow much influence I’ve got ‘rround herre, m’self.” Still, however, she could already hear Wulfric’s stern manner chiding her for taking a Royal guest to someplace as dubious as, say, The Tough Tavern. “Therre few places ‘rround t’ inner ci’y I’ve not been tae. ‘ow abou’ a taverrn? Therre’s Prrince Callum’s Taverrn I been meanin’ tae go tah. Though, aye, we’ll ‘af tae ‘ave a bi’ o’a faff ‘forre we go.”

“I s’ppose ye’rr stayin’ on t’ castle grrounds? ‘at’s where I’ll be ‘eaded, too. Shall we?” It wouldn’t make sense to split up, if they were both going to the grounds. She’d be able to point her house out to him right away, once they got past the inner walls.

His brow arched with curiosity when he heard that the tavern that Stratya suggested was owned by a prince. "Now you've colored me intrigued. Either I'm about to see a prince slinging drinks around or I'm about to be incredibly disappointed. At least the company is guaranteed to be pleasant." A chuckle rumbled from his throat.

Askel nodded in response to her question. "Ah, yes. I'm staying in the guest house with my family and soon the delegates from Alidasht. Let us go together if you do not mind the company." The prince was quick to follow her by her side for a short walk through town.

It wasn't very far at all, from the training grounds. Stratya’s abode was one of the first buildings encountered on the castle grounds, once you were past the gate of the inner wall. It stood out, due to the large domed window that curved around the left side to meet the side wall. It let sunlight in to nourish a collection of herbs Stratya grew inside. Previously, the room had been an underused greenhouse, but her steward had done some remodeling for her. The rest of the room was now a bar, with her kitchen behind. If she hired staff, she could probably turn it into a proper establishment. “Therre t’is. I’ll wai’ forr ye, shall I? Swing ‘rround whene’err yerr ready. If I’m nae, my stewarr’ will show ye in. I’ll tell ‘im y’ c’n look a’ m’ ahmorry, if y’like.”

Once he saw her house he said, "Oh, so that's it, there? A lovely home you have. Well, I better not keep you waiting then." With an elegant bow from the hip and with his hand on his heart, Askel gave his goodbyes and went off to the castle grounds to freshen up and dress for the occasion. Though it did leave him with a question; what does one wear at a tavern owned by a prince? Was it literally owned by a prince or did whoever owned the establishment just take the piss? Well, he’d figure it out later.

---

Stratya had also been a tad unsure of what to wear. Due to a somewhat recent encounter, she’d been to the tailor a time or two in the past few days, looking to expand her wardrobe. She’d grown rather comfortable with the various colors of formal dress for the Caesonian military she had available, and she was finding it was causing her difficulty if she ever wanted or needed to break away from that.

Eventually, she’d settled on something that wasn’t military dress. A snug pair of almost black fabric slacks, this time, beneath a girdle and a shoulder-bearing white tavern blouse with red floral embroidery at the shoulders and the wrists, extending toward each other. Gold fastenings and trimmings decorated the brown leather girdle and satchel at her side.

Reference~

Her steward answered the door. Upstairs, Garcian had put one of the maids up to serving as Stratya’s handmaid, something the Captain had fiercely refused before and had also protested against this time. A look on Garcian’s face made her relent, and so she was still under the careful grooming of Lily. And Alma. Garcian had not missed the opportunity to increase the handmaid staffing immediately. He’d hire a more experienced handmaid later, now that he had the opening.

“Prince Askel, we have been expecting you. Please, come in, Your Highness, if it pleases you.” He stepped out of the way, opening the path into the foyer, furnished with a long corner couch, center table and end tables, as well as an armoire on the left wall, which would border the kitchen and bar. He’d prepared the tables with ammenities.

“Her Excellence-” a faint ruckus from upstairs cut him off, muffled behind a heavy door, “nae, nae, he is here,” a door opened and shut upstairs, her voice became much clearer, “I look fyne,” she sounded more impatient than narcissistic as she stepped out from the hallway that disappeared over the kitchen and bar. She looked down from the balcony there and smiled, any tension disappearing from her voice, “Askel, welcome!” She crossed and began to come down the stairs, “ah, I shoul’ prrobably be morre forrmal now, rreyt?”

Askel just stood there awkwardly, shifting his weight on each foot. It was one thing to eat a meal with family and Ambrose, but it was another to eat a meal with someone he just met, especially a knight captain of Caesonia. It had been so long since he had been around anyone of any status, an odd thing to worry about when he was a prince of an entire nation. He gave himself a once over to make sure that he was presentable; the prince wore a light dark blue waistcoat with a matching tie over a white collared shirt, light grey trousers, and brown boots.

His train of thought broke when he heard a door open followed by Stratya's voice ringing through the foyer. The prince's gaze followed her as she walked down the stairs. A laugh of relief wanted to come out, but he held back; she was just as nervous as him. Flashing a smile and raising a single brow Askel said, "Captain Durman, we are going to a pub. You are dressed appropriately and wonderfully for the occasion. It's very Varian." He motioned towards the exposed shoulders. "It suits you."

A soft, pleased smile rose from her. A compliment already? Hala’s advice was paying off. “Ooh, thank ye. You’ve done qui’e well, yerrsen, if I may. I’ rreminds me..” she tapped her cheek thoughtfully as she came to stand in front of the Prince. Garcian retrieved a fur mantle from the locked armoire on the side of the room, which also contained an array of weapons, “o’a strream nearr m’ ‘ometown. Peaceful spo’. Found a gem therre, once.” The mantle was draped over her shoulders. It was a tenderly cared for thing, it sat on her shoulders with a familiarity that can only come with years. She looked over her shoulder at her Steward, speaking softly, “my dirrk, please.” The man bowed, and went back to the armoire. A boar’s head could be seen within, to match the pelt that formed the main body of the mantle over her shoulders. From within, the man retrieved her antique of a thing with a time-worn crest on the bottom of the hilt.

“If we’rre nae in frron’ o’ t’ men, I’m fine wit’ ‘oweverr forrmal y’d prreferr tae be, Prrince Askel.”

Her steward stepped to her side and presented her dirk to her. “Garrcian,” she began thoughtfully as she accepted the sheathed weapon and began to secure it to her girdle, “if y’ do so insist, I think I’ll need an ‘andmaid wit’ t’ ken o’a squirre.”

Garcian gave a thoughtful, enlightened hum, nodding obediently, “yes, I see Your Excellency’s point.” Of course she’d make this difficult. He did, however, see her point.

A soft nod was her response as she turned back to Askel, “shall we?” She would close the door behind them herself as they departed. She caught herself looking at him studiously. If she had any thoughts, she kept them to herself. Instead, “wha’s yerr favorrite booze? Drrunkarrd’s Dae’s tomarrah, I can poin’ ye someplace good for wha’e’err yerr lookin’ ferr.”

Askel chuffed amusedly at her flipping the script on him. "Stratya it is then" The prince walked beside her, matching her stride. The streets were abuzz with people getting on with their lives, wealthy people mainly, as they went on about their business. It was an odd thing for him to walk among them like this again after living a life that was so detached from the fineries that made up noble life, a life that so many try to claw up towards while it was just given to him. Such a thing left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he needed to keep himself together. After all, he needed to be good company for the captain.

When asked of his favorite booze Askel shrugged though it was good natured rather than indifferent. "I'm not too picky. I am always open to trying whatever is suggested by the locals. They always know what the real good stuff is."

While he walked beside her, he looked at her mantle both inquisitively and appreciatively. "So, I have to ask. Did you hunt the boar yourself or was it purchased? It's very unique... as well as warm." A look of concern was etched upon his face. "While I do not wish to underestimate your constitution, we're approaching the middle of Ignis. Are you sure that you are okay to wear such a thing in the middle of the day?"

The sun indeed beamed down on them, and he noticed that she had not brought a parasol. He could only wonder how in the world she was not melting wearing a literal boar upon her shoulders.

Stratya leaned back as she heard he had no particular favorites, and couldn’t help the smile that came over her, “ooh, nae parrtic’larr favrri’e? Mm~, perr’aps I can pu’ forrwarrd some’in’ tae catch yerr eye. Prrince Callum’s always a frriend ferr a drrink,” said with only the utmost kindness in her tone, “an’ the wyde varrie’y o’ drrinks on t’ menu rrefects tha’.”

When he brought attention to her mantle, she couldn’t help but smile a little out of pride. “I did ‘un’ this fierrce beasty m’sen, some..” she tossed her head back gently as she considered how much time had passed, “faaaaaw, twelve yearrs ago? Tae come o’ age, as ‘un’err’s apprrentice, I prrovided the cen’errpiece ferr sprring feast. Those werre some fyne rribs, aye. Aah, Mr. Keinly, good day!” She waved to a vendor who’d set up on the edge of the fountain square. It was leading up to Drunkard’s Day, and Stratya had given permission to a few enthusiastic vendors to set up the day prior at the edge of the inner city fountain square. For the holiday. Strictly for the holiday.

As he expressed his concern for her, she offered him a kind smile. A good man, this one. Considerate and strong, a stalwart ally for the battlefield. If they found themselves in some conflict, she could only hope the circumstances would be such that they could stand together. As for his question, “I c’n see why y’ migh’ think I’d be a wee bi’ warrm. I thank ye ferr yerr concerrn, Askel. T’ boars of Verrmillion wearr theirr furrs all yearr, aye? I think t’ pel’ mus’ be doin’ ferr me wha’e’err i’ does tae keep t’ boarrs cool in t’ hea’.” The mantle itself remained cool in the sun, despite the intensity of its shining.

As they passed the knight’s barracks and began to see the residences and shops of the inner city, Stratya began to look them over. He thought she’d bought it? It’d be a pretty penny, surely. Fur wasn’t cheap. “It’s still new tae me, y’ken. ‘avin’...” she paused and watched the road in front of her as she thought of how she wanted to say, “‘avin’ gold. Any gold. Silverr was abou’ all we’d see in t’ village. You’d find people- merrchants, wit’ a few gold, at the trrade post, bu’ in m’ village? Naaaae. So, it.. feels awkwarrd, spendin’ sae much. Capi’al’s expensive, i’ is.”

Now there was someone that could get things done. Askel looked quite impressed that Stratya had hunted her own kill though he was more fascinated with the insulating qualities of boar hide. However, he would have never expected her to be so open about her insecurities.

Askel gave her a look of understanding for her discomfort with her newfound sense of wealth. For someone like her who came from more modest means it must have been a shock to casually carry a purse with gold coins jingling around. "As strange as it may sound to you, I get it." He stated and then took in the sight of festivities in the middle of preparation for a night of libations. "Almost as soon as I was knighted by my mother and father, I left and lived as a knight-errant for years. I left with only whatever I could carry and my horse. I only just returned and I have to say it is an odd feeling to return to wealth." Askel grinned sheepishly because he knew it was such a strange thing for a prince of all people to say.

"I travelled all over Varian, Caesonia, and Alidasht to learn what I can about this world beyond castle walls. Fundamental truths and experiences that I could never hope to have otherwise, both the good and bad." For a moment there was a faraway look in his eyes. It wasn't reminiscing or nostalgia, just someone thinking about the sum of knowledge and wisdom he had gained from his journey. His lips curled up in a wry smirk, and he tilted his head to look down at her. "If I am to serve as a knight of Varian, then one must know of the world for all of its briar and roses. To remain ignorant is reprehensible, wouldn't you agree?"

Stratya couldn’t help but smile as she heard Askel describe his experiences. It seemed like he’d gone through the proper paces, unlike her own left-handed journey to knighthood. Despite the differences between them, “Aye, maybe it’s ‘ow ye step away frrom forrmali’ies, but I felt it tae be in yerr ken. Ye’rre t’ earrnest sorr’, aye? An excellen’ quali’y ferr a knigh’.” Despite their very different backgrounds, they presently stood in very similar positions, and she even felt like he was looking at her as an equal. It made him very easy to talk to.

“I’ve nae been fa’ beyond ourr borrderrs, m’sen. I’ve kept busy since my knigh’in’, and I’m,” she hesitated slightly as she considered how she wanted to phrase, “rratherr familiarr wit’ cer’ain ci’ies now, as it ‘appens.” There had been a purpose behind her touring Caesonia.

She took a breath, thoughtful, “I’d verry much like tae trravel moar, ‘n see t’ rrest o’ t’ worrld. At least some.” Maybe travel for something other than work, even though supposedly they'd been leisure trips. They hadn't, she'd been pursuing an investigation, but advertising that was counter-productive. “As ye say. Y’ cannae be sa’isfyed wit’ t’ breadth oa depth o’ yerr ken. Ferr such, as well, I should like tae see moar o’ t’ worrld..”

A meow came from nearby and Stratya was quick to look and spot a tabby cat, coming out from under a bush and looking at them. “Ooh~, hello.” The knight crouched down with her hand out, a gentle smile beaming at the critter, who trotted over and rubbed on her hand eagerly. “Oooh, what a sweetie. C’n I pick y’ up?” Before she could try, the cat jumped up onto her knees, keeping a shaky balance as it rubbed against her face, “gods, what a swee’hearr’. C’mon, then.” She gathered the cat into her arms and stood, letting the fuzzy cutie rest on her shoulder as she pet it.

Askel bent his knees slightly to get a little closer to the cat's eye level. It looked to be quite satisfied being held in the knight captain's arm "My, aren't you a cute one?" He cooed softly and held his hand out to let it sniff it before rubbing its face against it. Internally, he was screaming for joy to receive kitty cat acceptance. Askel gently began to scratch it under the chin and in response, it stretched its head forward to receive more.

"I was lucky to have the luxury of choice to go and explore when I could. Not everyone gets to have that, so there's no need to beat yourself up over it. Your time will come." He said while giving that cat all the love he could give. "But I hope when you do go you do it as a tourist rather than as a wandering knight. Makes for an entirely different experience I'd imagine,"

As a tourist, huh? As a noble at leisure, not a knight or a soldier. The thought of not dealing with something at most times distracted her for the briefest moment. Alas, there was too much happening currently for her to consider taking a leisure trip. Maybe if she could resolve some things, first. “Tha’d be reyt keen, it would.” With a nod, the Captain knelt to put the cat down, but it meowed loudly in protest and clung to her.

She stopped, straightening back up and looking at the little beasty, “Ooh..?” The little fluff settled into her shoulder, and she started to walk once more for the tavern, giving Askel a sheepish grin, “guess we’e brringin’ a ca’.” Not that she was opposed. Sidelong, she glanced at the critter, “Lucky yerr cu’e..”

Epilogue

Seated at the tavern, Stratya pulled the cat away from her plate of food, back into her lap, “nooo, if ye're 'ungry, you go mouse up a mouse, y’ brra'.” The cat looked up at her before flopping and doing that cute roll cats do when they're totally baiting you to touch the belly but you're just going to get attacked. She did her best to ignore the stretch and the way the little brat flopped in her lap afterward. Eventually, a slow, relenting sigh painted her defeat, “I ken yer doin'.” Stratya looked from her drink to the cat, “ye ken yerr doin'. I ken ye ken yerr doin'.” A steady breath in, one last attempt at resistance.. a defeated sigh, “and it's werrkin' besides.” Captain Durmand turned to the waiter to order a bit of meat for the cat. Should she just name the thing, at this point?

Askel maintained a blank smile while he slowly blinked after hearing his sister's grand idea on how to decide her suitors. This had taken a turn that he had not expected. The prince was ready to open his mouth, but Ambrose had beat him to the punch. He shot his senior knight a glare back at him though before he could protest, the stoic confidently stated that they would just kill all of her suitors with that unreadable expression on his face.

Askel looked at devilish duo and with a bemused laugh said, "Were you two always this terrifying or did this come about while I was gone?" He really did not want to know the answer to that. "Anyway, I have to agree with Ambrose; you'd just end up as an old spinstress. Mother and father would be most displeased if the reason you never married was because of us." Askel grinned mischievously and playfully threw his hands up. "Who knows, maybe we’ll lose on purpose to a man with a valiant heart, but the head of an ass. Now that would make for an interesting family portrait."

She had simply clasped her hands together, tilted her head, and gave the most innocent smile she could give at his question. ”It would seem that my dreams of a valiant hero coming to save me from two horrible demons just won’t be realized….” She said dreamily back to the two knights, or demons, as she pictured strong heroes fighting one after the other for her hand. Her brows furrowed, breaking her pure expression to glare at Askel. ”You do that and I’ll send a certain someone a very passionate and romantic letter. I still know your handwriting, dear Askie.” She let out an annoyed hmpf that lasted an entire second as she glanced over her shoulder.

”Oh, perfect. Our food is about to arrive! All this love talk has really given me an appetite.” Sylvia said cheerfully with an eager look as if the entire previous conversation had been entirely scrubbed from her current mood. The truffle butter pasta ribbons with black truffle shavings were placed in front of her. It had been at the top of the menu and looked very good so that had been enough for her. ”Oh, what did you two get? Hold on, let me guess, you BOTH got the pasta with short rib?”

Askel rolled his eyes at his sister's insinuation that he only cared about eating the simplest yet sustaining pasta dish on the menu. What was placed in front of him was a pasta topped with duck and crumbled bits of foie gras that was beginning to melt and meld into the red sauce and cheese. "Actually, I got the pasta with the duck confit. You know, the Kimoons have the most incredible way of cooking duck. They-"

Ambrose eyed the waiter with caution as the food was presented in front of Prince and Princess Camilia. The food looked incredible, and smelled even better. Despite his discipline, Ambrose’s stomach could not help but growl as his senses were captivated by the scents and heavenly appeal of such meals. He buried his wants, as one in his position often does.

“You know I didn’t order anything. I never do when I’m working. I’ll have a meal after I get you back to your quarters safely.”

The prince looked up at his fellow knight as if he heard the earth's mantle rumble straight from the man's gut. "Ambrose, if you didn't have anything to eat then you should have said so before we left! We would have given you time to nourish yourself. You know better than to be on guard duty in a restaurant on an empty stomach." It was strange to be the one to lecture Ambrose; he was the one who would lecture him on preparedness for all of the years he was a squire.

Sylvia had made an overly done look of shock at his choice, preparing to express her deepest surprise Askel had an interest in something other than swordplay. He was spared her genius rebuttal when Ambrose’s stomach interrupted them. Well practiced tears came to the corners of Sylvia’s eyes as she turned in her chair fully to look at Ambrose ”But…but…I got you the pasta with short rib…” She said pitifully and as if on cue the dish arrived at a vacant spot on the table between her and Askel.

”Please? I got it just for you.” Sylvia stared up at Ambrose with wide eyes as she absentmindedly picked up a large amount of her pasta with a fork and shoved it into her mouth. Her cheeks puffed out just a bit, chewing slowly as she tried to keep up the sad puppy look.

Ambrose let his eyes travel down to the floor as he considered their words. Much to the chagrin of his stomach, he ultimately knew what he needed to do.

“As adorable as you two are, and though I do appreciate the concern… This is not up for debate. I will take the food you ordered me to go, and I promise to eat as soon as the obligation I have been charged with is complete.” For the first time since entering the decadence of the Pasta Oasis, Ambrose’s hint of a smirk shifted into the truest form of his smile. “But don’t worry, Princess…and as your brother knows all too well, a missed meal here and there is part of the gig. I’ll be fine, and better for it as long as I know you’re safe.”

His eyes fell to the ground once more, the smile slipping back into the frustration he often wore so well. “I’ve already failed your father today once by not realizing that Princess Marina was up to her usual shenanigans. I had hoped the conversation her and I had on the way into Sorian would ensure at least a little bit of compliance from your sister… I was wrong. It seems my trust was misplaced. That is all the more reason why I must uphold my oath here and now.”

The prince gave their knight a look of understanding for the role he carried his shoulders was a heavy one. "If she really did decide to sneak off instead of turning in for the night, then I'll talk to her myself. You've already done enough, Ambrose; going hungry while we eat is punishment enough." Askel twirled his fork, gathering a bit of the confit duck, sauce, and pasta before taking a reasonable mouthful and gave his sister a look to tell her to give up. Ambrose was certainly not going to budge no matter how many crocodile tears she shed.
”I suppose if you eat it later that will be acceptable enough.” Sylvia let out a small sigh as she quickly lost her pitiful look and then beamed a smile at the loyal knight. ”We appreciate you, Ambrose. I get to enjoy everything I do because I know you are always there to protect me.” Sylvia was under no delusions about herself when it came to physical combat. She was likely the weakest amidst her siblings. The image of a warrior she was not.

Ambrose nodded in return to them both, and what he kindly did not say out loud is just how right the young princess truly was. But he thought it, and my oh my did he smile on the inside thinking about how many antics, shenanigans, pranks, and all the tomfoolery he had put up with to ensure that this sweet and gentle soul could be safe.

”You should not worry anyway.” Syvlia kept the wide smile she had but something shifted in her eyes. It was all she could do to hold back the sinister giggle she let out when schemes began to float in her mind. ”I will make sure Marnie receives the proper punishment for deceiving you…” Her gaze shifted to her plate and she mumbled ”....and for not bringing me along.”

The Briar Knight let a real smile tug at his mouth as he just barely overheard the young woman’s mumbles. He looked then to Askel and watched as the young prince, who was becoming one hell of a knight in his own regard, enjoyed his pasta. Of course, out of his own satisfaction he would never say such a thing outright. Ambrose wouldn’t want the man who had become like a little brother to him to grow too terribly big a head. It was already big enough in its present state. The thought forced him to fight back a laugh as he turned to the other patrons of this unnecessarily ostentatious restaurant.

Each of them was enjoying their meal, taking a dip in the pool, and otherwise going about their dealings as they saw fit. It had been interesting to see Sorian thus far; being his first time to the city in many years, but this time his meaning here was everything to him. These princes and princesses…as frustrating as they were noble…were his purpose now, in the void his sister left behind. All he truly wished was to do right by her, to make her proud, to protect her chosen family. If that meant he had to skip a meal, hunt down an ornery princess who always seemed to buck the authority of others, or even spill blood in the name of Camilia… He would do anything and everything he had to in order to keep them safe. On his honor, by his hand, now and forever. He was their knight.